Deborah screamed. One hand punched Mannan while the other desperately looked for something on her belt—probably a knife, Mannan thought. “Deborah, its me.” He grabbed both her hands. “Deborah, its Mannan.”
She looked up in recognition. “Brother?” Her face reddened and she clutched his neck weeping. “Oh brother, I—” Suddenly she passed out again.
Mannan touched her face and neck. He felt her hands. They were ice cold. She must be exhausted, he thought. Cold, wet, no food. He stood, picked her up, and placed her on his horse. He climbed on and nudged Fiona forward. They rode back into the wide valley and saw Ote.
Ote guided and wrangled cattle all around him. He saw Mannan at a distance and worked his horse in between the sturdy highland cows until he was free. Then he stopped suddenly before breaking into a full gallop to reach Mannan. “Where? Where did you find her?”
“Over in a small glen.”
Ote’s face reddened as tears erupted from his face.
Mannan grabbed his hand. “She’s not dead, only weak.”
Ote’s eyes widened. He reached down to touch her back.
“Let’s get her home. Start a fire and feed her,” Mannan said.
“Aye, brother.”
The two trotted their Irish ponies towards home. Ote scarcely looked ahead as he watched Deborah, unconscious on Manna’s mare. As the house came into view Ote galloped ahead to start a fire. The sun would set soon and the west was gray with clouds.
When Mannan arrived Ote took Deborah off the horse and carried her to the growing fire made outside the house. Mannan wanted to tell Ote what to do, but he thought better of it. She was his concern now. As Ote nursed Deborah as best he could, Mannan busied himself making a fire break to reflect the heat back towards Deborah and Ote. He went back to his things that were left at the house and found some salted beef, a bottle of wine, and some bread left over from the party the night before. “Here, give her a little of each. If she drinks or eats too quickly, she’ll throw it all up.”
Ote nodded silently as Mannan walked away to deal with the horses. He heard Deborah moan, then speak, then cry as the two lovers embraced. He thought to leave the two alone when he heard his sister call his name. “Mannan?”
“Aye, Deborah.”
“Where’s mother?”
◆◆◆
Ote sat on the ground and held Deborah close. He caressed her hair gently as she wept at the news of her mother’s death. Mannan brought more bread and salted beef while she drank a little Spanish wine. He explained how he found her body and how he feared the worse for her. “How did you get away?”
Deborah cuddled closer to Ote before she began. “Some of the cattle had wandered far away from the heard. You and Ote weren’t at the farm, so I wandered down the valley to bring the wayward back. I was there for an hour or so when mother came riding up telling me to try and get to the nearest family. That something was going on at the farm. I tried to argue with her, but she would have none of it.”
“Then what happened?” Mannan asked.
“Well, I was concerned,” Deborah said. “So I ran back and—” speech failed Deborah.
“So you saw them torch the house?”
Deborah nodded as she cried, with her head buried in Ote’s chest. “I saw the tall one. He lassoed mother and—” Again, Deborah could not speak.
“Here lass, drink some wine. It will calm you.” Ote handed the bottle to Deborah who took a swallow. Her breathing calmed. She looked Mannan in the face, then averted her eyes. “I ran, brother. I saw what they did to mother . . . and I ran.” She tried to choke out some words but failed. Deborah took a deep breath, wiped her face with her sleeve and spoke again. “I ran. I could only think of my own skin and I ran. I hid among the cattle. I am so ashamed.”
“Mother’s fate was not your burden, sister. Besides, no man could have done more,” Mannan said.
Deborah would not listen. She buried her head in Ote’s chest and wept bitterly. “I ran,” she said, over and over again.
“It’s alright, my love,” Ote said as he raised her chin. “Just yesterday we mourned you both. You were right to run. No good could have come from you staying.”
“He’s right,” Mannan said. “And there’s more news.”
“What?”
Mannan told Deborah about the funeral and how almost a dozen Mickens came to pay their respects. How Connell’s deeds had proceeded him and how many Mickens declared themselves done. He then told her about Riona’s falling out with Connell. How his support was even smaller now.
“Good. A pox on him and all his kin.” The fire flared when she spat in it.
Mannan smiled at that. Although he hoped the shadows hid it. As much of a headache Deborah was, and could be in the future, it was not in her nature to be melancholy. He stood.
“Where are you going?” Ote asked.
“I’ll bed next to the remains of the barn. If Connell or his men come back, it’ll be for the horses.”
“Nonsense, brother. Stay with us,” Ote said.
Mannan shook his head. “I’ll make a fire down there by the barn foundations. I’ll be fine.” He nodded as he left. “Good night.” There was no more conversation on the subject. Mannan found some passable hay for a bed, made a fire out of dried logs in the pile he kept, and lit it with a log from the original fire. He drank Spanish red to keep warm as he gazed into the fire and drifted off to sleep.
He awoke to the rumble of horses well after the sun had risen on the next day. The sun was low in the sky, but it was bright, yet cold. Autumn was coming. Mannan stretched and stood to see twelve men galloping on horseback. For a brief moment fear gripped him. Would they ride him down? Were they coming in peace? He searched for his sword and unsheathed it as the first riders got within fifty yards of the burnt out barn. That was when he recognized some of the horses.
“Easy now, Cousin. Put your blade away,” Seamus said. He was flanked by Mickens on either side. In the middle was a man dressed in black wool and a flat cap, in the continental fashion with an eagle feather sticking out of it. He wore a blue sash draped from his right shoulder to his left hip. A gold chain was tied to his shoulders.
Mannan threw his sword to the ground. “What’s this?”
“Well, it seems you Irish do have some sense,” the man in black said through a thick brogue.
“Mannan, this is Sir Duncan McKenzie,” Seamus began. “Sir Duncan—”
“I am the sheriff of this valley. I understand you’ve had some difficulties with your neighbors?” Sir Duncan’s horse shifted its weight and pranced in a circle.
“All I did I did in self-defense,” Mannan replied.
“Yes, I know. All your kin, as well as your neighbors, testify to that. It’s a good thing for you, or else you’d have a rope around your neck, swinging from an oak tree.” Sir Duncan looked around. “Now, I take it you were burned out by this Connell Mickens?”
“Aye, we were.”
“Apparently he has turned brigand. He has raided kith and kin, as well as his neighbors.” Sir Duncan looked around absentmindedly before narrowing his gaze on Mannan. “Would you know why he would do something like that?”
“Connell is redshank. A mercenary. He thought to plunder and profit here to little account. But he misjudged us,” Mannan said.
“Apparently so,” Sir Duncan replied.
“My guess is that he’s raising funds to leave. He missed the fighting season in Ireland and he can’t stay here. My guess is that he’s going south or mayhap to one of the islands.”
“Well,” Sir Duncan began. “Your private war is over. Do you understand?” He looked around. “Does everyone understand? He is my problem. I speak with the McKenzier’s voice on this matter. Any man who has claim against Connell must swear loyalty to me before he can gird himself with a sword. Is that understood?” Every man grumbled, but nodded. Sir Duncan looked at Mannan again. “So, Mannan MacOwen, where do you think your neighbor could be?”
&
nbsp; Chapter 11
Dawn came quickly in the highlands of Scotland. The sky turned from periwinkle to purple to lavender all in under an hour. The little thatched roof cabin some eighty yards from the shore of a small lake looked tranquil. Small rings of smoke lazily drifted from its chimney. In the distance riders galloped down from some high road straight for the cottage.
“How did you know?” Sir Duncan asked.
“Easy. They haven’t hit this one yet.” Mannan pulled his sword and nudged Fiona in the ribs. The other men followed down the hill and crossed paths with the marauding Mickens. At the sight of the second party, the Mickens tried to rein in their Irish ponies but failed. Most rode with no saddle. When they pulled on their reins the horses slowed and stopped, toppling many of their riders.
Mannan cut one down as he tried to remount his horse, delivering a fierce blow to his head before he fell still under the horse’s feet. As Mannan turned Fiona another Mickens lunged at him with a spear. Mannan ducked the blow. Grappling the spear the two locked. They tugged back and forth until the Mickens slipped from his horseback taking Mannan with him.
Mannan felt a hard crunch as he fell on the shaft, breaking it. The pain radiated from his ribs through to his lungs and back. For a moment, at the feet of many horses, he froze. Air would not come to him. His head throbbed as he tasted copper and grass and the moist morning air.
He rolled to his right as a horse ran by him. “Get up, Mannan.” Those words echoed slowly in his head. Suddenly his head cleared and he saw an angry Irishman lunge at him with dirk in hand. As the two wrestled, Mannan clasped the wrist of the dirk hand. The man rolled on top of him as horses reared and ran around them. The Mickens raider jammed his forearm into Mannan’s throat. Mannan choked and gasped for air. He struck the man once in the face. Then a second time. Then a third. A forth blow broke his nose. Blood gushed onto Mannan’s face. He felt the man’s leverage weaken. Mannan yanked his hair to pull him over. Suddenly Mannan found himself on top.
But Mannan lost control of the dirk hand. Frantic, he found it but it was empty. The man he wrestled with screamed in agony. Mannan stood, sucking in air and saw the dirk lodged between the man’s ribs. He grabbed the broken spear.
“Please, no.” He begged Mannan for mercy as the shaft plunged into his chest.
Mannan looked at the chaos around him. Men fought on horseback, on foot, and on the ground. Everyone was covered in mud and blood. He could scarcely tell one from another. They looked like a pack of angry wolves fighting over a carcass.
A shout got Mannan’s attention. Seamus was still on horseback about to be pulled off by three men. Mannan went to his cousin, scooping up a hand ax as he ran.
Crunch. Mannan buried the ax deep into the spine of one man. He parried a sword blow with the wooden shaft as the ax let go of the first man’s back just in time to parry. The blow splintered the handle. Mannan punched the swordsman with his off hand, staggering him. He looked around but found no weapon to use.
The swordsman came high meaning to cleave Mannan’s head in two, but he caught the arm. The two stood in the middle of the skirmish locked in a match for the sword. Suddenly the swordsman went flying three feet and hit the ground with a sickening thud as Seamus’ horse back-kicked the man. “Thank you for the help, cousin.” Seamus tugged his forlock.
“Mercy,” someone called.
Sir Duncan held a man at sword point. Other men dropped their axes, dirks and swords, then went to their knees. “Where is this Connell Mickens?” Sir Duncan asked.
No one replied.
“I am the McKenzie Sheriff of this valley. You have broken the King’s peace with your raiding. I can hang you all, or I can be merciful.” Sir Duncan looked around and still no one spoke.
Mannan grabbed a dirk and grabbed the nearest man on his knees. “Where’s Connell? Where’s your kin?” He pressed the dirk to the man’s throat.
“I—I don’t know,” the man whimpered.
“Why do you raid this place?” Mannan asked.
“I know you,” another man said.
Mannan turned to his right.
“I know you. You’re the great Mannan Mor MacOwen. You murdered Diarmuid in cold blood. You burned down his house and raped his sister.” Rage echoed with every word. “Aye, I know you.”
“You lie,” Mannan said. “Diarmuid was an accident. I did not break hospitality. And I certainly did not rape his sister.”
“How did you get our landlords to side with you?” The man asked.
“I side with no one. Mannan will know the king’s justice before all is said and done. I promise you that. But your kin, this Connell, has much to pay for,” Sir Duncan said.
“No more than this man.” He spat at Mannan’s feet.
“That’s enough out of you. I will not be insulted by thieves,” Mannan said.
“Well, would you look at that? A MacOwen who thinks he’s a gentlemen. He won’t have his honor besmirched.” The man chuckled, but none of his kin would follow his lead and laugh. “Listen, MacOwen. You come from a race of heretical bastards. You reave and pillage and then play the saint. Your hypocrisy makes me sick.” He spat at Mannan.
Mannan slapped him with the back of his hand.
The raider fell to the ground and spat blood this time. As he stood, he tried to wipe the blood from his chin but only replaced it with mud. “You’re just angry we gave as good as we got. You burned Diarmuid’s home. We burned yours,” he said while laughing.
Mannan picked up a dirk and plunged it in his belly. The man screamed in pain while his kin’s eyes widened in disbelief. He coughed, dropped to his knees, and tried to speak.
Mannan pulled the dirk out of his stomach and wiped the blood off on the dying man’s shoulder. “I’m not mad you burned my house down. That can be rebuilt. I am angry that you murdered my mother. And for that, I will not forgive you.” He slashed the man’s throat.
The man fell to his side, choking and coughing and feeding his blood to the soil of the lake shore.
Men wept in fear, others started praying.
Sir Duncan turned away from the scene coughing. When he composed himself he spoke slowly. “Swear by your honor and you can go home. Give the McKenzie your fealty and you can go back to your farms and fishing boats. Break that oath and you will hang by a gibbet. The choice is yours.”
Every man with a Mickens last name swore to keep the King’s peace. They were allowed to go home with their Irish ponies. When questioned, however, all they knew was that they were supposed to raid the cottage. No one knew where Connell was.
Frustrated, Mannan climbed aboard Fiona when Sir Duncan rode by. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“What?”
“You murdered a man who surrendered. It was grotesque and unnecessary.”
Mannan put his sword back in his sheath. “I disagree, Sir Duncan. I found it very necessary.”
Sir Duncan grabbed Mannan’s arm. “I am the sheriff. You will follow my commands or I’ll hang you too.”
Mannan smiled. “That, Sir Duncan, is a club with a waiting list. You will have to get in line.” Mannan wrestled the knight’s hands off his arm and rode off.
◆◆◆
Mannan went home that night to check on Deborah. She worked with some of her cousins, making repairs to the chicken coop and mucking what was left of the barn. Some of the men followed Mannan there, including Sir Duncan, the MacKenzie Sheriff. One of the sheep came up lame and was slaughtered for mutton stew. There were all thankful for the meat.
Mannan stared into the fire lost in his thoughts. Where was Connell? What was he doing raiding MacKenzies? Was he a dullard? Was he mad? Mannan could not tell. If was obvious that Connell and everyman who followed him were trying to leave the highlands, their actual options of how to leave were limited.
Reaving season had ended in Ireland so there were no calls of redshanks or gallowglass. If it was Eastertide, things would be different. A man could make good money fighting the sassoon
s in Ulster. A redshank could get free passage and new weapons by Hugh O’Neil, if he were lucky. But this wasn’t Eastertide, this was the ending of summer. There was no way out of Scotland by ship.
Riding south was out of the question, too. Connell and his followers rode Irish ponies. Most of them bareback. Those things would wear out by the time they got down south. Besides, Connell couldn’t speak English, at least Mannan didn’t think so. Someone like Connell would stick out like a lusty nun at Lent. No. The only place Connell would fit in was on a battlefield.
“What are you thinking about?” Seamus asked.
“Do you really need to ask?” Mannan replied.
“Think about him, too much, and he’ll haunt your dreams. You’ll never be rid of him.” Seamus sat at the fire and pulled out a flask. He opened it and took a long pull before coughing. “Here,” he said as he past it to Mannan.
“You know I can’t do that. Not until justice has been done. Justice for our kin and our destroyed homes,” Mannan took a long pull from the small flask. The whiskey tasted harsh and strong, like a medicine, then became sweet like caramel, then dull and sharp all at the same time. “Oh, that’s nice.”
Seamus smiled. “Don’t let Connell eat you alive. Don’t let his bitterness infect you.”
“How can I not? He is like the man in his cups, slurring his words and sloshing cheap wine about and staining other men’s Ionars and doublets. I’ll not let him do it, cousin, I won’t.” Mannan took another swallow of whiskey. “Because a man like that does not quit. He takes hits. He regroups and plans and attacks. He learns from his mistakes and attacks again.” Mannan’s eyes widened as he watched the fire crackle and spark. “We left Leinster and all of Ireland to find peace and a new start for all of us. We wanted full bellies and warm winter nights.” He looked across at Deborah, now tending the cook fire. “We came here to start anew. To give birth to fat babies who would never know hunger.”
Mannan: A Tale of Vengeance: A Novel in the Chronicles of Philip Williams Page 11