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Lost Son of Ireland Prologue Corca Dhuibhne Peninsula, Bruic the Badger focused on the lifeless bodies scattered across the sandy beach. Undulating rivulets of blood mixed with the sea. The ocean’s tangy smells wafted on air, to combine with the odor of hot smoke pouring from a fortress on the promontory. In contrast to the swirling gray smoke, shards of sunlight glittered and warmed the area with golden beams. Sea birds raced from nearby islands to encircle the tiny cove and dive at the still forms. Shrieks resounded for miles as the creatures swooped down, squealed and fought over tidbits of raw, plucked tissue. Bile rose in Bruic’s throat and threatened to choke him. Despite the gruesome sight before him, he feared returning to the sturdy wooden ships berthed in the next bay, wanting desperately to remain in his native land. Turning slightly, he scanned the area, searching for a place to hide from those who had stolen him from these shores seven years ago. No safe haven presented itself on the barren beach. Only scrawny trees and high rocky ledges kept him from seeing the shapes of the tall vessels in the other cove. As wind and waves beat the bodies of the dead, a sea-laden breeze blew a lock of dark hair over his face. He pushed it back with unnecessary roughness and fought the urge to retch. Bruic shook his head in anger, frustrated. “I’ll never get away from them,” he mumbled, just to hear the sound of his own voice. Since his enslavement, he had witnessed battles often, but the results never resembled the carnage before him. Now, at thirteen, his intention to become a warrior of note vanished in the face of this destruction. He had grown older in the last hour. He sucked in rank air and plunged his sword into the ground. Kneeling on one knee, he bowed his head. An almost forgotten Gaelic prayer flew into his mind. He mouthed the words. Once done, he pushed on his sword and rose to his feet. Without another glance, he scuffed through the sand toward the granite boulders that separated this cove from the next. At the bottom of the ledges, he paused to look back at the mangled bodies. A flash of movement and unexpected color in the high reedy grasses that topped the nearest dune caught his gaze. A red-haired child teetered to the edge of the sandy ridge. Behind her, a yellow-haired girl peeped through the grasses. Bruic suspected they had witnessed the raid from a secret hiding place. The redhead slowed, looked back at the yellow-haired girl but kept her forward motion. Not watching where she was going, she lost her balance and slid on her bottom to the beach. Her choking hiccups dispersed the feasting birds. They rose in the air, flapping and screeching in protest at the disturbance. Muted sobs shook her body. A choked, whispered cry tore from her mouth, “Mama! Help!” Startled, Bruic whirled around. His eyes wide, he glanced toward the rocky ledges. The men in the next cove. Had they heard the little girl cry out? Struggling upright and lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, the girl brushed her tattered tunic and then raised both arms high to balance in the deep sand. With a grimace meant to frighten, Bruic spun to face her, hoping to scare her back onto the ridge. Body bent, sword thrust before him, he rushed at her. He hesitated when he noticed the glazed look in her overbright green eyes. In a hoarse voice, she whispered louder. “Help me. My mama—” A sharp whistle came from the next cove, followed by a shout. “Badger?” “Allo,” Bruic called back over his shoulder, in the language of his captors. For a second time, flapping wings rose in the air. This time the birds flew higher, circled wider, and cawed their continued displeasure in much bolder tones. With hands balled into fists, the girl stopped and covered her ears. She closed her eyes as if she thought closing them might make her invisible. She opened them slowly and moved closer, blinking hard. “Man?” Another sharp whistle, accompanied by laughter and shouts from the men, far louder than the squawking of the birds, cleared the large rocks of the ledge. The men bellowed and cursed, obviously eager to leave the carnage they had created. The same voice called, “Badger? Come. It’s time we leave this gods-forsaken hole.” Angered by the calls, Bruic hissed at the girl in broken Gaelic, his speech garbled, littered with Norse words. “Get back, goose!” He pointed to the next cove, then to the spot where the girl had come from. “They’re ready to leave this place before more guards come.” He peered at her through squinted eyes. “You don’t want them to carry you away, do you?” She tilted her head, but her gaze lowered to the ground. Her thumb went to her mouth; but she must have thought better of it for her hand quickly cupped her chin in a childish gesture instead. Her reactions puzzled Bruic. He wondered if she understood what he was trying to say. She shuffled nearer. Her lower lip quivered. “Help me find my mama?” He bent closer and spoke into her face, pointing to the dunes. “Go. Hide. Now.” He shoved her. She fell backward into the sand. “Go back!” he whispered, poking her shoulder. Her unwavering gaze met his. They stared for an elongated moment. Her large eyes, the color of the deep sea, seemed to beg him for something. Then, she glared at him and shook her head. “No!” “Why won’t you listen to me, tiny one? I’m trying to help you,” he said. She pounded a fist in the sand. “Mama. I want my mama.” Muscular Annar, his long yellow hair hanging to his shoulders, appeared on top of a boulder. Dressed all in brown, a black cloth over one eye, he made an unnerving picture against the soft blue of the sky, and his sudden appearance surprised Bruic. He jumped in front of the child. The small girl trembled and turned onto her knees. Bruic forced her flat and put a foot on her shoulders. He heard her short, ragged breaths and, glancing down, saw her tears flow to form a lump in the sand. To keep her still and hide her presence, he knelt on one knee over her squirming body. Annar adjusted his eye cloth, cupped his mouth, then yelled. “It’s your master, boy. He wants you. Now! Stop your prancin’ amid the dead, pretendin’ you’re some kind of warrior-hero.” He laughed and slapped his leg. “Not yet, slave, not yet.” He beckoned. “Come along or we’ll leave you behind.” “Stay down, fool,” Bruic rasped at her through clenched teeth, his knee pressing her deeper into the gritty ground with all his weight. “What have you there, boy?” Bruic shouted back, “Nothing of worth—an old log.” The man chuckled then his face grew grim. With a great roar, he yelled, “Hurry, boy,” then leaped onto another rock and slipped out of sight. * * * Kellach gasped as she realized the man touching her was one of the bad ones. Unable to move, she had studied the man on the rock and recognized both the yellow hair and the black cloth draped over his one eye. He was the man who had thrown her mama to the ground and jumped on top of her. She wriggled but cringed. Would the man holding her hurt her? Carry her away? He stood, releasing her. She crawled away, her heart pounding. Particles of sand had mixed with saliva in her mouth. She spat. Her chest heaved. Her knees burned from the coarseness of the sand. She turned toward the young man and narrowed her eyes to give him her fiercest look. He grinned at her, before another whistle captured his attention. He ran toward the boulders, hesitating only once to look back. In a huge bound, he vaulted over several of the boulders and disappeared from her view. Gasping to catch her breath, she sat still. Tears rolled down her face. Her legs shaking beneath her, she stood and searched the beach for her mother. She wanted to tell her what good girls she and Olwen had been. How they had hidden, holding each other hard, but never made a sound. The two girls had watched Dun Geata’s warriors fall, heard the terrible screaming of men and horses. They’d seen the bad men run after the ladies. Not even when the man with the patch jumped on Kellach’s mama did the girls make a sound. Her mama screamed, but they stayed silent. Now, everyone was silent. Kellach curled a strand of her hair around a finger and picked her way across the beach, stepping around body parts. She thought she spied her mother’s gray skirt and ran to the spot. A long piece of gray cloth, obviously ripped from her mother’s garment, lay in strips on the blood-soaked sand. Shocked and bewildered, she reverted to infancy, looking around and calling, “Mama—? I hided like you said. Kellach’s a good girl. Please, Mama—” Her hand rubbed her chest. She looked at it as if it belonged to someone else. Numbness whipped her. Several minutes passed until she understood that her mama was not going to answer her. The bad men must have taken her away, for she was nowhere to be seen. Kellach picked up the cloth. She fluttered her hand in a beckoning gesture toward the ridge, to Olwen who had hidden with her. She called out in a husky whisper, “Olwen, come. Please come to Kellach.” She waited. No answer came from the dunes. Kellach’s body chilled despite the warmth of the spring sun. Through a fog of shock, she sat by the water. Her hand crumpled the piece of cloth she clutched. She pressed it to her cheek and mumbled a lullaby, rocking back and forth as her mama did when she sang to Kellach at bedtime. Kellach choked and gagged on her melody, her tears flowing into the sea.
Chapter One An Dun Geata, Destiny hurled him home to do a godless deed, a deed evil enough to live on in the memories of bards for eons to come. Unable to ease the guilty ache in his heart over what he must do to his fellow Gaels, Bruic the Badger paced the shale-covered ground between a huge monolith and the band of hidden Norse horsemen. The monolith protected an ancient burial site close to the raid’s objective, An Dun Geata fortress. The nearby men, an elite set of guards, protected him. During the night, a host of the men under his command infiltrated the stone beehive huts of those living across from the fort. He calculated this unusual strategy, the element of surprise, might work best to secure the area without loss of blood. His return to the land of his birth had come through express orders from Olaf the White, who was attempting to reclaim Dublin from the Danes. Drawing a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Bruic worried over the release of his young sons held hostage by Olaf, and looked out to the nearby coves that hid his raiding party’s ships. The coves would make fine ports for the trading Olaf desired, once all of Gael was conquered. Perhaps, the location of trading ports would please the man enough to free the twins. The morn was bleak and still, yet the sound of the rolling ocean and the fragrant but fractious wind of dewy predawn sang to Bruic’s soul. He slid to a bare knee, crossed himself and whispered thanks for this restoration, however brief, to Gael. Unprepared for the vivid memory of his former visit to his homeland, his heart raced. At thirteen, Bruic had witnessed the natives annihilated, women raped and pressed into bondage, or slain on the spot. No group deserved such slaughter or enslavement once, much less a second time, and he recognized the general region as the one he had visited before. He shook off the internal guilt he’d held for years over his part in that earlier raid and made a silent vow. This one would be bloodless. A hand signal from the nearby copse of trees caught his eye. Only Fergus, the only other Gael and his second in command, would dare attract attention. All others waited for Bruic’s cue to move. Careful not to be seen, Bruic stood and darted toward the line of trees. He peered into the branches where some of his men had chosen to hide. The rest stayed on the ground, holding the horses. An edge of anticipation sliced the air around the greenery, anticipation sharp as blades that lay concealed in the scabbards of his men. “What?” Bruic asked, keeping his tone low. Fergus, who sat hunched behind a wide tree trunk, spoke softly, “The men are in position, Bruic, but impatient to begin. The animals grow restive.” “Warn the men again. I want no spilling of the natives’ blood, regardless of the resistance. That’s an order, Fergus.” “Short of an unexpected outburst, it should be an easy raid. It’s only a minor queen in charge, one who must grapple with a Dark Druid’s curse upon her. She’ll have no strength to fight a greater force, nor will her people.” Bruic nodded. “Keep my horse at the ready. It’s almost time but wait for a sign from me.” “Aye. As always.” Fergus backed further behind the trunk of the closest tree. Bruic moved away on a spongy carpet of grass. Once again at the base of the monolith, he climbed from one boulder to another until he reached the top, where he lay prone. With a practiced eye, he studied the terrain below. The small number of huts across the narrow, rutty road…the small stone walls around the fields, set in precise lots to keep the cattle in…the escarpment soaring into the sky from beneath the fragrant ocean…the nearly impregnable stone fort with its massive wooden door… His body stiffened, alert. Two people entered the yard through the fort’s front portal. A red-haired woman and an older man, whose gray beard grazed his short neck, walked in the direction of the inner walls, set away from the sea. The woman reached up and dragged a multicolored shawl over flame-colored hair. Knowing the improbability, Bruic wondered if this woman could be the grown-up version of the little girl he’d saved from discovery years ago. With a shake of his head, he dismissed his fanciful thoughts of the little girl, who still sparked thoughts of his infamous day on a beach, and whose bravery had remained unforgettable throughout his life. The people below drew closer to the walls weakened by the Norsemen helping to conquer the lonely fort. Surely the two would notice the undisguised damage done to the inner walls and even to the ones beyond. Would they alert the compound? How many others were within the fortress? A large number of raging Gaels might disrupt his plans for no bloodshed. Tension hung in the air around him, promising little relief. The woman stopped, turned and then ran back toward the fort. Obviously, the destruction of the walls had been discovered. No shouts rang out. About to raise a hand to signal his men, Bruic hesitated. When the woman leaned against the fort, he knew he’d be better served to wait and watch. But waiting was not something Bruic did well. * * * After seeing the deliberate damage to the barricades, Kellach’s cloaked aversion to most men resurfaced and beat in her brain. Her main grudge against men had found its feet with her mother’s seizure by foraging raiders. Now, with this damage to the walls weakening the clan’s security, Kellach’s temper flared anew. The deliberate breach of safety sent a spear of burning anger through her breast. She raced toward the fort to confront the one man she suspected of such ruination. Ronan, her over-king’s stepson, must be behind the wreckage; one of his feeble attempts to force her into marriage. All manner of sea birds, attracted by the unusual activity so early in the morning, flew over the promontory, riding lifts of air, squawking and swooping close enough to skim her shawl. She waved her arms to drive them away and tore across An Dun Geata’s long yard. Ordinarily her fiery nature simmered, then calmed, but today’s destruction was beyond her ability to accept. She took little notice of the inactivity in the fields when her people should have been up and about their daily chores. Her makeshift shawl fell to her shoulders. Strands of long red hair flew into her mouth. Kell spit them out with the force of her fury and stubbed her soft boot on bits of shale. Her breathing grew labored from her dash across the yard. Reaching the fort’s entry, she leaned against the damp stones and gulped in cool air. Barely in control, she shoved the fort’s massive door with her shoulder. The edge smashed against the inside wall with a resounding crash and her tunic caught on a shard of wood. She grabbed the cloth with both fists, ripping it from the wood until it shredded in uneven slashes. A moment passed while her eyes adjusted to the interior dimness and her breathing restored itself to a more normal rhythm. The bed pallets, set in the stone of the interior walls, were empty, except for one. “Och, Ronan,” she muttered, then her voice grew harsh, “Ronan! ‘Tis past time to rise. Get up, you lout.” The man moaned from behind his furs and drew them closer around him. “Have you no manners, Kell? ‘Tis a guest I am, entitled to much better treatment.” Kellach inched toward his pallet, her back to the stone walls of the main hall. Better not to get too close to a man who might grab her without reason or encouragement. “Be raising your pitiful body from those furs,” she spat. “Men are needed. The barricade walls need rebuilding.” “What?” Ronan flung the covers over his head and rolled over onto his side. Strands of yellow-haired hair were visible, his words muffled. “What barricades? What are you saying so loudly?” A mighty groan came from under the furs. “Walls?” Kellach assumed his sluggish response was due to the amount of ale he’d drunk during last night’s story telling. She wanted to shake him. “Get up, at once,” she stormed, her voice loud and shrill in her ears. Ronan lifted his head from the furs and stared at her. His murky green eyes held dark mockery. “Work on walls? Like a peasant? I think not, my sweet.” “Then leave these grounds,” she ordered. “You and your men have caused enough uproar in the past few—” “Uproar. What uproar?” His words came in a rush, followed by a large yawn. “Sweetness, your mouth is running from you. What are you saying?” “The strife you and your guards cause. Chasing the women of my clan. Damaging our walls. Leaving us defenseless, so you and Morfinn can raid these premises. Those barricades have been our security, and well you know it.” “Ah, but Kell, the women of your clan are very lovely.” Ronan cast a narrow-eyed look at her and raised his hand. “Hold, my sweet. How could I damage anything? My men and I were here with you last night.” “Not all of them.” Ronan stood, letting his furs drop from his naked body. Although tall and well made, his body held no appeal for her. Her upper lip curled into a sneer as he grabbed his leggings from a ledge above the pallet, pulled them on and belted them with a leather cord. Dressed, he sauntered closer to her until his hand touched her shoulder and his fingers dug in. She shrugged and edged closer to the door. “Kell, sweetling, what annoys you so? I wish only to take care of you, give you jewels, dresses made of more than the coarse cloth you now wear.” She whirled. “Rule me is more apt!” Heat rose inside her. Every muscle of her body was rigid. “And if it’s helping me you want, work on the walls.” Sidling closer to her again, he spoke softly, “You get riled over things, sweet. Be of a lighter spirit, have love for living.” He continued to approach. Kellach raised her arm and stiffened it to stay him. She frowned, daring him to take another step. “No? All right, love. Tell me. What has happened to your barricades?” “The mud and seaweed binding has been scraped out. Rocks were toppled from the top. The barricades are neither as high as they should be, nor as sturdy. They’ve been weakened. Deliberately.” “And you think I had something to do with it?” Ronan moved behind her. His hand adjusted her shawl, then caressed her back, high, near her neck. Kellach’s insides froze at his touch. She twisted around and shoved him away from her. Her hands clamped to her hips. “Was it not you who brought me news but a month ago?” “What news?” An uneven grin plastered on his face, he waved her closer. “Come here, come. What did I tell you?” “About Olaf fighting the Danes for control of Dublin? About his sending the Badger to terrorize the coastal areas? Did you not tell me this?” “The Badger? Are you sure?” Ronan’s laughter soared through the vaulted hall. He clutched his sides in an exaggerated display. His laugh stopped as quickly as it started, with as little cause. He plopped down on the hall’s center bench, his elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand. “The Badger?” His face took on what Kellach considered his serious, about-to-lie mien, and he ground his teeth in annoyance. The sound pleased her. “You’re right,” he said, shaking his head. “I did mention him. I said a lot of other things as well.” His arms held in front of him, he said, “How I would protect you, take care of you, see that you were not harmed? I swore it upon my sainted mother. Do you not remember all my words? I said them with such fervor.” “The news was calculated to make me quiver with fright, like some rabbit in the fields.” Kell approached the bench recklessly. “Did you not warn me about the Badger? How fierce he was! How little he cares for human life!” “Kell, my sweet, you cannot believe the Badger would travel here just to disrupt your precious life?” Ronan stood and strolled toward his pallet. “For a woman of intelligence, you often act the fool.” With languid movements, he reached for a shirt, slipped it over his head and bent to pick up a tankard left on the floor the night before. No doubt the contents were rancid by now, she thought. Ronan brought the mug to his lips and sipped. He swished the ale around in his mouth and swallowed it in a gulp. Some dribbled from the side of his lip onto his shirt, and Kellach looked away in disgust. “The walls must be repaired,” she grumbled. “We’ll be needing food in the souterrains beneath the fort and yard, so we can withstand a siege.” As Ronan continued to swill the fluid, a fierce anger overcame Kellach. Knowing no wiles would work with him, she rushed over and slapped the tankard from his hand to the floor. What was left of the ale spilled on his clothing. The tankard crashed to the floor, where it clanged and bounced until it rolled to a stop. “Do you think I jest, you pitiful fool?” Ronan’s face reddened. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and glared at her with venomous, narrowed eyes. He grabbed her around the waist and yanked her to his chest in a crushing grip. His breath was foul, his body odor rank. Kellach brought her elbows down hard. She tried to twist away, but he cupped her face in a rough hand. He squeezed her lips into a pucker with his fingers. His mouth touched hers, his lips parted. He forced his tongue into her mouth, gagging her. The kiss was wet, invasive. Two day’s growth of beard scratched the tender skin of her chin. She punched his stomach with all the strength she could muster. He stumbled back, his stance belligerent, but he smiled. “What you need, sweetling, is a man to make you behave like a woman should.” “Don’t be touching me again,” she hissed, scrubbing her mouth with the back of her hand. “So help me, I’ll slay the next man who puts a hand on me.” Ronan swaggered closer, his fingers clasped behind his back. “My sweet Kell, do you not comprehend that someday you will marry me? And be glad to do so. I have all things in my favor. My alliances with power far exceed your own.” Kellach moved toward the door. “I have more important things to consider than you. My clan. My mother. I must find her, if she lives. Only she can rid me of this Druid’s curse I carry.” He chuckled. “My precious Kell. My fierce, feisty Kell. Lord, but you’ll be a pleasure to tame. And I’m looking forward to doing just that.” She spun to face him. “Before I come to you, I’ll enter a nunnery and give myself over to God.” He came after her in a leap, clutched her wrist and wrenched it upward. “Hold, Mistress Kell. Heed me well.” His breathing turned fierce, his nostrils spread. “When this threat to Gael is over and we are free again—in fact, even if I pretend fealty to Olaf the White, you’ll be part of the bargain. I’ll have you with Olaf’s approval. Maybe, even with the Badger’s own personal approval.” She twisted, trying to pull her arm away. “I wouldn’t count on it if I—.” “Kelllllaaaach!” The elongated shriek echoed through the hall. The cry struck a chord in her. She shoved Ronan aside, raced through the open door and up the short set of stairs to the yard outside. |
