Mannan: A Tale of Vengeance: A Novel in the Chronicles of Philip Williams

by Jason Henry Evans

  Seamus chuckled.

  “No. I realize now that killing him will be the easy part. We have to find him first. If he gets away, Connell will just come back with more assassins and more violence. We can’t let that happen.” Mannan took another pull from the flask, then settled down to bed.

  That night he dreamed of his mother. Her strong will and her sweet disposition when she helped others.

  The next morning his heart ached for her. He stumbled to the stream in a daze. As he washed his face, he thought of the party that started it all, how all the Mickens were so polite to his mother. Then he thought of Riona. How good it was to hold her and the sweetness of her lips.

  “Riona,” he said allowed, as if to conjure her. Mannan splashed water on his face. “Riona,” he said again. She was Connell’s cousin, too. It was said that she kicked him out of the family farm. Would she know where Connell went? “Riona,” he said again. This time he spoke with purpose as he walked back to the house.

  Seamus had his back turned to Mannan as he relieved himself on a young oak.

  “Riona,” Mannan said a fourth time.

  Seamus dropped his liene and turned. “What about her?”

  “She’s his cousin. She’s their tanist and she kicked him off of her farm. I’ll wager she knows where Connell is going.”

  Seamus scratched his beard. “Aye, but it’s just as likely she don’t know a thing.”

  “Aye, that is a possibility. But what have we got to lose?”

  Chapter 12

  Mannan sat down to salted oats and butter. He discussed his plans with Sir Duncan and his kin. They all agreed that going to Riona was a good idea. “With any luck,” Mannan began. “We’ll be on his trail by nightfall.”

  “Then what?” Seamus asked.

  “Then I arrest him for breaking the King’s peace,” Sir Duncan interrupted.

  Mannan said nothing. Arrest, trial and execution were fine for most men, but not for Connell. “Finish up, we’ve got riding to do.”

  One by one the men with saddles saddled their horses while the other men gathered their things. Mannan practiced what he was going to say to Riona when he was interrupted by screaming from his home.

  “So that’s it. You would abandon me?”

  “I do this for you. Why can’t you see that?” replied the man inside the house.

  Mannan went to see what the fuss was about. He opened the door to Deborah berating Ote. There were tears and hurtful words thrown back and forth.

  “Would you shame me, Deborah?” Ote asked. “Would you unman me? Have me cower here with the womenfolk while my kin worked to keep all of us safe?”

  “Yes,” Deborah said, eyes bloodshot with tears. “Yes, if it meant keeping you alive. Keeping you with me. Why must you go? Why can’t Mannan handle this?”

  “Keep your voice down. All can hear you outside,” Mannan said.

  Deborah rolled her eyes and grunted in disgust. “As if I care what they think.”

  “You should,” Mannan said. “Years from now, when this is all over with, you will need the goodwill of your neighbors and your kin, sister. Acting like a love sick child won’t due.”

  Deborah’s face continued to redden. Her face and hand quivered as she pointed at Ote. “That man is the only man I have ever loved. I cannot lose him. Will you make a widow of me before my wedding day?”

  “No, sister. That would not be my choice. But remember there are worst things than death,” Mannan said.

  “What is worse than death?” Deborah asked.

  “Shame. Cowardice. Dishonor, come to mind. Would you have Ote known as the man who hid behind his wife’s skirts while others fought?”

  “YES,” Deborah said as she stomped her foot. “I can endure anything with him by my side,” she said weeping.

  “And what of Ote? Mayhap the men won’t shame him. But there will be whispers. Whispers that will turn into japes. Every day he will stand a little less tall. His eyes gazing at the ground because when his kin called on him, he hid behind the skirts of his wife. Oh, no one will call him coward to his face—not at first—but everyone will talk. Do you want that for your husband? For the sons you will bear him?”

  “Mannan’s right, love. I’ve got to go. Could you stand the shame if I stayed? I could not.” Ote buckled a belt around his waist. On that belt hung the great kilt he wore. He moved towards Deborah to kiss her, but she turned her head. Stung by this, Ote turned his back to her and stormed out the house.

  “Why did you do that?” Mannan asked.

  Deborah slapped him in reply. “This is all your fault. You will get my Ote killed. I know it.”

  Mannan grabbed Deborah by the shoulders. It startled her and she gasped. “For the love of the mother that bore us both, I will let that pass. But you, lass, need to grow up. You aren’t half the woman mother was. You are petulant and childish and selfish.” He pointed to Ote, now outside. “That man loves you. Once more, he has suffered every privation with a grace I did not think he had.”

  “Let go of me,” Deborah said.

  “And another thing. It was in this very house you shamed both of us for not cutting Diarmuid down. You begged for violence. You shamed men for not being violent enough. Well now you have your violence. Men on both sides have died and you bear some responsibility for that.”

  Deborah said nothing.

  “If that man dies, know he died loving you. And what did you do? You spurned him,” Mannan said. He looked at his sister, all passion and fire, and pitied her. “Grow up, Deborah.” Mannan turned and left the house as the sounds of wailing trailed behind him.

  Mannan saddled his horse. Nearby Ote sat astride a white Irish pony bare back, face reddened. He wiped tears from his eyes. “She does love you, Ote. She’s just scared, is all,” Mannan said.

  Ote could not speak. So he nodded in reply.

  “Everyone ready?” asked Sir Duncan. A dozen men wrestled with their horses ready to ride out. “Then let us depart.”

  ◆◆◆

  The ride into Micken territory was a quick one. Since the fighting had started the trail that connected their lands was now a common road. Mannan and the others rode into the valley where Diarmuid’s house used to stand before Mannan had it burned. In the distance the blackened timbers and soot came into view, followed by a small pavilion and a dozen other tents next to the former home.

  Women screamed as Mannan’s group rode closer. Mannan could hardly blame them. Any roving group of men on horseback could be seen as a threat now. Caution called for distance.

  They were met by a dozen men with spades and hand axes. Tired men, desperate with exhaustion and fear, gripped their farm tools when Sir Duncan reined in his horse. “Lower your weapons. I am the Lord-Sheriff and I wish to speak with Riona Mickens. Where is she?”

  The weary men eyed each other with caution. Some seemed to recognize Mannan. Suddenly the flap of the pavilion flipped open and Riona appeared. On her hip was a dirk. “Well, if it isn’t the Lord-Sheriff? To what do I owe this great honor,” Riona said.

  Sir Duncan produced a scroll from a saddle bag. “I have a warrant from The McKenzie demanding the arrest of all involved.”

  “If that is the case, Lord-Sheriff, then why do the MacOwens ride with you?” Riona asked.

  Mannan tried to explain. “Riona, we’re—”

  Sir Duncan shot Mannan a glance that silenced him. “I am well aware of Mannan Mor MacOwen’s crimes. He will be punished. The fact that he and his kin ride with me and my men is a testament to their thirst for justice.” Sir Duncan nudged his horse forward. “So I ask you, goodwoman, where are your kin?”

  Riona took a step back towards the pavilion as the color ran from her face.

  “Invite me into your tent so we may discuss the brigand Connell Mickens. No doubt you wish him apprehended, too.”

  “Do doubt, Lord-Sheriff,” Riona said as she gestured for him to enter. “Miriam, fetch some wine.”

  ◆◆◆

  �
��That is all I know, Sir Duncan.” Riona sat back in a carved chair. She was surrounded by her kin behind a small table. Mannan stood behind Sir Duncan and another McKenzie who sat in chairs provided by Riona.

  “So let me see if I understand. You warned him against raiding Mannan’s farm, but he did it anyway. When some of your kin informed you of his treatment of Mannan’s mother, you had harsh words with him? Eventually you banished him from your service and from your lands?”

  “Aye, Sir Duncan. You have the meat of it,” Riona said.

  “Then why not send someone to the McKenzie and have them send me? Why was I not informed of this dispute until blood has been shed?” He turned back to Mannan.

  Riona’s face flushed. “Why? Why did we not tell you? Tell our great host the McKenzies?”

  “Riona, DON’T.” Mannan said.

  “Mannan, for the respect I owed to your mother and for your hospitality you showed me when I was your prisoner, I will not slit your throat. But DO NOT give me orders in my OWN HOUSE.” Riona narrowed her eyes on Sir Duncan. “As for the McKenzie, please tell our liege we are truly grateful for his Christian charity. But if I may speak plainly I must say you McKenzies are greedy, petty people.”

  “Riona—”

  “Not now, Mannan,” Riona thundered before turning again to Sir Duncan. “The land here is hard to cultivate, the weather is awful, and the cows are poor of milk and meat. But we suffer all these things in the name of peace. We are grateful, Sir Duncan, for our place here. I would take a thousand privations of the Scottish Highlands over war torn Ireland every day. But you make it worse by crowding us in here like sheep in a pen.”

  “Then work harder, woman. Earn your keep,” Sir Duncan said.

  “We do, my lord. We do. Every day. But more come from Ireland every summer. We farm the valleys, manage the cattle, and fish the lochs and the seas. But every spring you allow more and more people. How are we to live when the earth can barely sustain the people already here and you invite more?”

  “That is not the McKenzie’s concern,” Sir Duncan replied.

  “EXACTLY. All he wants is his rents. His grain and cheese and his cattle on the hoof. He cares not if ten families live on land meant to sustain four. He cares not if children starve because the ground will not produce enough grain.” She pointed at Mannan. “Is there any wonder violence erupted between his kin and mine? You have put ten hungry rats in a sack that can only hold six. Not only will all the animals be hurt, some will rip the bag and escape.” Riona trembled with rage.

  Sir Duncan stood. “I have heard enough.” He turned to Mannan. “You were given every advantage. Both of you. It is not the McKenzie’s fault you Irish rabble cannot get your houses in order. But it is his responsibility that the peace be kept. Where is your cousin, goodwoman?”

  “I tell you I do not know. He is unwelcome here or anywhere we Mickens resides. I told him he would drown himself in the sea trying to swim back to Ireland. He laughed at me and spoke vulgarly.”

  Mannan stepped forward. “What did he say?”

  “Something about he would mount a maiden first,” Riona said.

  “What?” asked Mannan.

  “Connell is a very vulgar man he—”

  “No. No. Not that. Please, Riona, repeat what he told you,” Mannan asked.

  “He said he would ‘mount a maiden first,’”

  Mannan grabbed the sheriff’s arm. “Sir Duncan. I know exactly where Connell and his small band are going to be. I know their plans.” A smile grew on Mannan’s face.

  Chapter 13

  Mannan’s heart raced at the thought of all this finally being over. He urged his mare forward over the unkempt roads. It was dusk now and they didn’t have much time.

  “Tell me Mannan,” asked Sir Duncan. “How did you deduce that Connell would come to the coast?”

  “I knew he was redshank. A mercenary for the O’Neil or anybody else who could pay. But the fighting season is ending now in Ireland. So I thought he wouldn’t want to return without any money to live on until next season. Then I started thinking about the McKenzie raids you told me about. When Riona made that comment about the maiden, I put it all together.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “He’s not going back to fight. He raided McKenzie lands because he knew he would have to leave after Riona banished him. This isn’t mindless violence, he gathering anything of value to pay for a passage back.”

  “But you just said he can’t work as a soldier—it’s too late in the season.”

  “That’s true, but with enough stolen property he could slip into Ireland and live quite handsomely until the spring,” Mannan said as he galloped.

  “What was the final piece for you?”

  “Riona said he would ‘mount a maiden.’ I have a friend who captains a trading ship. It’s called the Pink Maiden.”

  Sir Duncan’s eyes widened and a smile appeared on his face. “Clever.”

  The sun plummeted into the ocean like the rock a child drops into a well. Darkness would come quickly as purple skies turned midnight blue. Some of the stars were already out.

  “There,” Mannan pointed. Flickering camplights fought the ocean breeze far off in the distance. Captain Honor had returned. But things were all wrong. Over a dozen horses stood tied together. There was not one bonfire, but three. MacOwen fishermen would be just arriving to harvest the smelt, not celebrating. Fishing was a hard job that took all night long. But as they rode closer, men were singing and laughing loudly.

  “Alarm! Alarm!” Someone cried as Mannan’s horse got to the beach.

  Suddenly men jumped up from their seats and pulled axes and dirks. Others tried to mount their ponies now jostling to be free of the line they were tied to.

  Mannan pulled his sword and rode into the camp. Among the bright lights he saw men he recognized and had fought against. Connell had to be here. He urged Fiona forward as he struck a man down with a swing from his sword. Suddenly spear and pike points rushed Mannan. He parried a spear meant for Fiona’s breast. He pulled the mare’s reins tight and the horse reared, kicking the spearman in the face.

  He turned to face another man but an arrow caught him in the thigh. It was Seamus, firing from horseback. “We need to help Sir Duncan,” Seamus said as he turned his pony around.

  Seamus was right. Four men were hacking at the Sheriff but his mount constantly moved, preventing anyone from laying into the Scottish knight. Suddenly someone grabbed his leg. A spear crashed into his chainmail. Sir Duncan lost his balance and crashed to the sand with his horse bucking and braying.

  Mannan kicked Fiona in her ribs and the mare jumped to life. Mannan passed by and took the top of one man’s head off. He turned the mare around and rode back. This time he crashed his sword into the shoulder of another man who cried out in agony. Mannan wheeled his mare around to stand in front of the fallen sheriff. Meanwhile the sheriff’s horse continued to brey and buck wildly. “Seamus, get control the horse.”

  Seamus put his bow away and rode to the angry horse. He reached for her reins and rubbed her neck.

  BOOM.

  Seamus fell from his horse.

  “SEAMUS,” Mannan hollered. He jumped down from Fiona and ran to his friend. Seamus lay still with his eyes wide as blood began to pool in his chest. “No. No. No,” Mannan repeated. The chainmail shirt Seamus wore had a large hole in it where blood poured out. “Seamus?” Mannan said again as he held the lifeless body of his friend and cousin.

  BOOM.

  Another thunderous crack. This time the smell of sulpher and burning mingled with the salt air.

  BOOM.

  This one was followed by screams. The din of gunfire retreated, replaced by clashing steal, galloping horses and the wind coming from the sea.

  “Mannan, are you hurt?” Ote asked.

  Mannan said nothing.

  “Mannan, are you hurt?” Ote asked again.

  “I’m fine, brother. But Seamus is dead,” Mannan said.
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  “Was he shot?” Ote asked.

  “Oui, mon ami. He was shot with my pistols.” Out of the darkness walked Captain Honor, rubbing his wrists. As he came into view a giant, swollen bruise on the left side of his face played with the shadows and light by the fire.

  Mannan looked up. “What happened here?”

  “We came ashore to trade for more fish. The last time I made quite a bit of money. But when we landed only a handful of fishermen were here. Then these malcontents arrived and shewed the fishermen away. They said the Sturgeon was ‘a gift,’ and that they wanted me to sail to Ireland. That they would pay me well,” Captain Honor said.

  “Then what happened?” Ote asked.

  “I asked them where Mannan was. I asked them ‘Where are the MacOwens?’” Captain Honor said in his broken English. “The tall one with the black hair, he became enraged. He HIT me. Took my crew by surprise and tied us up.” Captain Honor’s eyes flared in the fire. “Then they murdered one of my crew. They slaughtered him like a ewe.” He spat in the fire. “They tried to threaten me. ME!” His mouth trembled with rage and Captain Honor was left speechless. He composed himself. “It is a good thing you have come, Mannan.”

  “Captain,” said Sir Duncan. “If your men will accompany us, we can end this tomorrow. There is already a warrant sworn out for this base-born manjack. Help us.”

  “No. I cannot. I am a merchant. A man of commerce. This trip has already cost me the life of a crewman, as well as my arms. I must cut my losses.” Captain Honor shouted in French to his remaining crew.

  Mannan grabbed Captain Honor by his forearm. “Please. I know you have suffered more than you bargained for. But since you last return, we have all suffered.” Mannan leaned into Captain Honor. “Please, captain.”

  Captain Honor shrugged off the hold. “I cannot.”

  Mannan understood. This was not the Frenchman’s fight. Hell, he would probably never return to the highlands of Scotland now that his life was endangered. But what could they do now?