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

by Jason Henry Evans

  Now it was Mannan’s turn to look away. “I know. I wish it were not so. I wish Connell and Diarmuid still lived. I wish that my mother could sew your wedding veil.” Gaining courage, he looked Riona in the eye. “I wish for a great many things that will never be. I am sorry for this all.”

  “I am sorry, too.” Riona pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her reddened nose. “I am sorry for Diarmuid’s pride and Connell’s rage. I am sorry it came to this.”

  “Every fight I was in I thought of you. My restraint was for you. I did not ask for this,” Mannan said.

  “I know that. And, I thank you for it. Every Mickens woman in the highlands with a son old enough to fight or a husband who can still stand, thanks you for your mercy.” Riona’s mare jostled as a cool breeze came in from the sea. “Where will you go? Will you become a sailor?”

  “I’m not one for the sea, Riona. We’ll put in port somewhere, Plymouth or Antwerp, or even Calais. I’ll part ways then and see what trouble I can get into.” Mannan pet Riona’s mare absentmindedly. In the distance he could see the Pink Maiden and a boat rowing to shore. Mannan looked at Riona one last time. “I hope you find happiness, Riona. Goodbye.” Mannan pet her mare one last time and began his walk back to his wagon.

  “Mannan, wait.” Riona trotted her mare forward until it was between Mannan and his sister on the wagon. “Despite all the terrible things that happened between our peoples, none of it changed my . . . fondness for you.” Riona spoke with tears streaming from her eyes. “I cared for you then, as I care for you now.” She blew her nose again. “I hope you find peace, Mannan. You are an honorable man. And in many ways, your kind treatment of me while I was your prisoner has forged the peace we now enjoy.” Tears streamed down her face. “For that, Mannan Mor MacOwen, I thank you.” Riona took a deep breath. She noticed others so she turned her mare and rode off, disappearing behind the sand dune.

  “Why didn’t she just tell you she loved you?” Ote asked.

  “She cannot. She is betrothed to another man. Besides, I killed many of her family, including her brother, it would weaken her position greatly if she declared something that could not be,” Mannan said. “Besides it’s not important. I know and she knows. That’s enough for both of us.”

  Fiona snuffled and jostled her feet.

  “Oh don’t you think I forgot about you, now.” Mannan turned to Fiona and rubbed her neck. “You kept me alive, girl. Now be a good mare and help Deborah and Ote. They’ll need it.” The two touched heads as Mannan nuzzled the mare one last time.

  As he walked to the boat, Mannan spied Father Duncan. “God Bless you, Mannan. I hope you find peace.”

  Mannan nodded and climbed into the boat. He waved once but could not bring himself to turn around again. Think of what’s ahead of you, Mannan thought. Don’t look back.

  Once aboard Mannan found a small space below deck for his things. It was well into fall now and the ocean was bitterly cold. The ship went through several storms, too. But once they passed the Irish Sea and headed for Antwerp, the seas calmed.

  “Well, Mannan. I wish you luck,” Captain Honor said.

  “I will forever be in your debt, captain. I cannot repay you,” Mannan said.

  “If this is true, then why do you abandon me to this heathen city of Calvanists? Work for Captain Honor,” the old captain chuckled.

  “Thank you.”

  “Au revoir, mon ami. Be well.”

  Mannan hugged Captain Honor, then headed down the gang plank. He fought back tears knowing he would probably never seen any of his family or friends again. Go forward, Mannan, he thought. He walked around Antwerp for hours. The smell of baking bread and cooking chicken overpowered him. Be smart, Mannan thought. You only have so much coin. You need a job, first.

  Antwerp was a cacophony to the senses. The smells, the sights and sounds were all too much. Men and women sang about their produce or fish or cloth while bawdy women heckled men from their balconies. Through this throng Mannan saw and heard a stout man in a blue military cassock hawking something in front of a table. He seemed to be speaking Dutch, but Mannan wasn’t sure. Suddenly he switched to French, then to English. Mannan did understand that.

  “To arms, to arms. Defend the reformation and good steward of the Low Countries,” the man said. He then repeated it in Dutch, French, and back in English.

  “What do you mean the ‘steward of the Low Countries?” Mannan asked.

  The man looked at Mannan head to toe. “Irish?”

  “No, Scots.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “I am Corporal Edwin Codswell of Ford’s Company of Foote. We seek good healthy men to fight the Spanish,” Edwin said.

  “What’s the pay?”

  “2 shillings a month, English plus booty and food.”

  Mannan thought of it. There were worse jobs to have. “Who do I talk to about joining?”

  Edwin turned around. “Lieutenant? Lieutenant?”

  A man with brown hair and no beard came out of the shadows where he was talking to someone. “Yes, corporal?”

  “This man is interested in enlisting.”

  The well-dressed lieutenant smiled broadly. “Good! My name is Lieutenant Philip Williams. Welcome to Ford’s company of Foot.”

  Mannan took his hat off and offered his hand.

  “God’s death, how did you get those?” Lt. Philip asked as he stared at Mannan’s scalp.

  “These? They are almost healed. I, uh, fell from a horse,” Mannan said.

  “I see.” Lt. Philip sized Mannan up. “So you ride?”

  “Apparently not well.”

  The lieutenant laughed at that. “Can you read?”

  “Aye, that I can do,” Mannan said. “Irish and English both.”

  Lt. Williams smirked and turned to his corporal. “Well, we have a scholar here. Have you eaten?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, you look fit enough. Come and have some stew. The wine is awful but the beer is good.” Lt. Williams put his arm around Mannan and led him inside.

  Mannan went willingly. Something told him things were looking up.

  Dedication

  When I was a young man I attended Pasadena Community College. It was there that I fell in with a group of eclectic students. Some of those people worked at the Southern California Renaissance Faire and on Closing weekend, 1990, they invited me to work the faire, too.

  While it may seem like hyperbole, that weekend changed the trajectory of my life. It affected everything. Now, at my faire we didn’t just have stage shows and booths, like at so many Renaissance festivals across the country. We had environmental areas where actors did their own research and taught living history. Curious as to how an English jeweler lived? Go talk to one in the middle class guild of St. Ives. Want to know how the English army got paid? Talk to the military camp of the guild of St. Michaels.

  My friends portrayed the Irish and Scots of Tudor Ireland. We were called guild of St. Andrews, but everybody knew us the Clan MacColin. We hand sewed historically accurate costumes, we learned authentic Irish dances, we sang, made our own pole-arms, and we built everything from wood lathes, to currachs, to small towers, and boat docks. Lord, did we build. We also choreographed fights for over thirty years with live steel and black powder cannons with an amazing safety record. We cooked food, studied history, had babies, and raised families.

  This book is dedicated to every man, woman, and child who took the oath and wore an oak leaf or acorn as a badge of distinction. This book is dedicated to the Clan MacColin.

  To all those men and women who learned how to fight, sew, build, & dance for the last sixty plus years, you gave me a home when I didn’t have one. You became a big part of my life. Although it’s been twenty years since I wore a kilt or carried a pike, you are all still my family.

  MacColin Abu!

  If you’re interested in the living history of Tudor Ireland and Scotland and you live in the southern California area, then go to www
.maccolin.com to learn how to join. We are always in need of strong backs and strong hearts.

  Underach Mor!

  Author’s Notes

  While evidence suggests that human beings have lived in the Highlands of Scotland for over two millenniums, during the last thirty years of the 16th century, a remarkable event occurred as tens of thousands of refugees fled Ireland to avoid the violence and famine of three separate wars. The First Desmond War, the Second Desmond War, and the Irish Nine Years War. These refugees moved to the Inner and Outer Hebrides, the Shetlands, and other islands, along with the western and northern coasts of the Highlands of Scotland. They went wherever they had familial connections.

  After a generation living in Scotland, many of the men returned seasonally to Ireland as mercenaries. Redshanks they were called because of the ruddiness of their shins. (They walked in bogs and rivers without shoes.) Their presence, as a readily available fighting force, exacerbated political tensions between the Gaelic lords and chieftains with the English Crown. The problem would eventually die out as immigration to Virginia and other colonies became an option, greatly decreasing the tension that existed because of overcrowding.

  While writing this novel I wanted to present the hardships marginalized people living on marginalized land, faced. I also wanted to show their poverty. They herded cattle, but many wouldn’t slaughter them for beef; cow dung and milk were too valuable. They have weapons, but those things are heirlooms; swords handed down from father to son, homemade bows, and the dirk, an Irish short sword. Most of these characters don’t wear armor, either. Mannan has an inherited shirt of chain mail, but that’s it. Finally, almost all of these characters rode Irish ponies bareback. Things like saddles and helmets and fancy weapons were far too expensive and impractical for first generation Irish refugees living in the Highlands of Scotland.

  They fought as they lived; scratching a life off the soil with their bare hands.

  If you want to read more about Mannan, pick up my debut novel, The Gallowglass, at Amazon.com.

  Acknowledgements

  No work of art exists on its own. Very rarely does Aphrodite come fully formed out of the head of Zeus. So I would like to take this time to thank some people for helping me write this book.

  Steven Gillan, thank you, so much for the afternoon phone calls that changed topics frequently and kept fresh ideas in my head.

  The Fetching Mrs. Evans, thank you for always supporting my dream of being a writer. I love you.

  My beta readers; Darren Hunt, Jason and Katie Frasier, Alex Nissan, and he incomparable Beverly Coutts. Your feedback was incredibly helpful.

  About the Author

  Jason always wanted to be a writer, he just didn’t know it. After attending college and working in education, Jason’s life changed when he met the Fetching Mrs. Evans. After over a decade working in both public and private schools, Jason discovered the wonderful writing community in Colorado, where he still lives. Jason is a writer and a historian, (as well as a bon vivant,) who is active in the Colorado Writing community as a teacher and a speaker.

  If you enjoyed reading about Mannan, Deborah, Ote, and Rionna, as well as the other characters, and you want to stay in the loop about Jason’s latest book releases, as well as promotional giveaways, appearances, as well as other events, be sure to sign up for his email list. Those on the list are treated to short historical essays, free stories, and previews of upcoming releases. You can sign up at www.jasonhenryevans.com. You can also follow Jason on Twitter @evans_writer, on Instagram at Jasonhenryevans, as well as his official Facebook Author Page: Jason Henry Evans.

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2020 Jason Evans

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover art by Rebecacovers, Fiverr.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

  A Grant Street Publishing Release.

  Printed in the United States of America

  You can reach Jason Evans at:

  http://www.jasonhenryevans.com

  author@jasonhenryevans.com