Celtic Storms (4 page)

When Patrick’s step mother made an attempt to save a child lodged on the roof of one of the cottages, Monae had lost her footing and fell through the roof, causing the structure to collapse. Monae had been swept out to sea with the others. Their bodies were never found and Breacan MacCahan had mourned the death of his wife in solitude and silence. Breacon MacCahan had mourned the loss of two wives, and the toll was obvious in his face.

Patrick’s mother had been killed when he was but 12 years old. Before his very eyes, he watched as the mercenary sliced his mother’s side clean through to her rib cage. Just three years younger, nine year old Parkin had begun to scream and wail at the sight of the man from behind the trees. Despite Patrick’s efforts to keep him quiet; Patrick knew he must do something. Finally, Patrick could do nothing else but bind Parkin’s mouth with his plaid in hopes he wouldn’t be heard.

They had all gone to the stream to fish and bathe as was customary with their mother on warm summer days. Patrick and Parkin had taken up the lead, running ahead of the others. Younger brother Payton, only seven summers old, was languishing behind as was usual and had yet to arrive at the stream. The look of sudden horror on his mother’s face gave away that they were in imminent danger.

As his mother turned towards the village, Patrick saw him. An angry brute of a man with long unkempt hair, wearing sparse chain mail that appeared to be several years older than he, and sitting atop the largest horse he had ever seen. Blonde almost colorless hair that hung past his shoulders and crystal blue eyes, spoke the truth. This man was a Norseman.

Patrick panicked for a moment, awe struck at the massive brute in front of him and simultaneously impressed with his mother’s fortitude. From behind the patch of trees, he and Parkin hid and watched.
I must help her. She is but a woman and I am trained in defense. What can I do?

“
Who are you”, questioned Bevin MacCahan, Patrick’s mother. “And what are you about?” The tilted smirk that the Norseman revealed told Patrick everything he needed to know, and it was not good. The imposing figure strode closer to Bevin. “I will have your jewels my lady - and your brooch.” She had worn the MacCahan clan brooch with her plaid that morning, and it was indeed spectacular with its exquisite detail and inlaid sapphire and ruby stones.

“Nay” stated Bevin, almost nonchalantly, “They are not yours for the taking. They belong to Laird MacCahan, the chieftain upon whose lands you transgress.”

“I will have them,” answered the Norseman, “or else I will have your head.”

Fear began to rise in Patrick, such that he thought he would lose his noon meal all over the ground where he stood with his brother.

“Nay! You will not touch a hair on her head, and you must leave at once,” shouted Patrick as he came around the trees to stand ten paces from the Norseman. His hands shook so much - he hoped the warrior did not see.
What am I doing? What am I going to do? I cannot let him touch my family; Father will scorch me if anything should happen.

“
And who is this, may I ask?” inquired the daunting warrior. “’Tis no one”, replied Bevin, “’tis but a simple stable boy who has wandered too far from the grounds – he is of no consequence and should return immediately to the keep,” Bevin said as she gave Patrick a knowing glance and titled her head toward the castle grounds.

“Nay,” said the Norseman, “I perceive he is more than a stable boy, and may bring a ripe handsome reward should he be the Laird’s son - asis my suspicion.”

“Mother, no,”exclaimed Patrick, surprised at the untruth she had told. Patrick’s heart stuck in his chest at the magnitude of his utterance. In that one fleeting moment, Patrick knew his life was about to change; drastically, and not for the better.

“I will have them now,” demanded the Norseman. “Nay,” said Bevin.

“I have told you they belong to Laird MacCahan, and they will never be yours.”

“You will hand them over now.”

“Over my dead body,” exclaimed Bevin as she unsheathed her dagger from under her skirts.

“So be it,” replied the man.

To this day, Patrick could not quite remember the exact turn of events that resulted in his mother’s death and his own injuries. His mother’s head lay still on the ground just two feet from her body and Patrick’s right hand was crushed and broken, his mother’s dagger in his left hand, bloodied from the flesh of the Norseman’s horse. Her brooch and jewels were gone, taken by the trespasser.

It had taken several minutes for his father and captain of his guards to arrive. His youngest brother, Payton had seen to that. As soon as he spotted the stranger near the stream, he had turned tail and ran towards the fortress. No doubt the Norseman had been scared off at the ferocious sound of a roar bellowed by Breacan MacCahan at the news of the intruder.

Parkin remained tied to the tree - where Patrick had left him; his plaid still bound about his mouth. Whimpering and struggling to breathe, Parkin’s face and chest were drenched with tears for his mother and brother, and the regret of being unable to help.

Patrick’s hand had healed well enough. He was still able to use it – the healer saw to that – but he would never have full use of it – and it would never be as strong as it once was. For a lad of just twelve summers, it was devastating news, especially for one destined to be the clan leader. As the eldest son, it was expected that he be the strongest, most skilled warrior, and that he have full use of all of his faculties – so as to protect his people.

It was the other that had changed Patrick’s life forever. For nearly three summers afterwards - he had not spoken a single word. He had not climbed out of his haze, and not ventured a care for companionship. Three full summers – and still nothing.

The healer had all but given up hope that Patrick was still there, inside – somewhere. But Maeri was not akin to giving up. The healer had seen men through worse. Men – yes, children - no. Most grown men could not withstand the sight of a beloved being struck down so viciously without succumbing to the darkness or drink. But Patrick was just a wee lad. To have witnessed such an atrocity was unspeakable. Indeed, it had rendered Patrick utterly speechless.

Laird MacCahan’s Chambers

“Patrick, my son, you are here. Please sit – we have much to discuss,” stated the elder MacCahan. Breacan MacCahan was a handsome man, with long brown waves that flowed past his shoulders and tiny braids that sprung from his temples. He wore a full beard that touched near to the top of his breast bone and had blue eyes the color of rain.

“Thank you. I pr-pre-pre-prefer to stand,” Patrick retorted.

“Nonsense, take a bench Patrick,” commanded the Laird.

“Patrick, please welcome our guests from the O’Malley lands. Patrick, this is Ruarc O’Connell, he is the older brother of Laird O’Malley’s wife and chieftain of the O’Malley military forces. His brother-in-law, the Laird, passed recently.” Breacan gestured towards a stout looking red headed man dressed in soldier’s attire who stood leaning against the south wall. Ruarc nodded his response.

“And this is Deasum MacNaultey his second in command, along with Carbry O’Quinn– his armory overseer and this is Aengus O’Connell, younger brother to the late Anya O’Malley - the Laird’s wife.” Patrick nodded his acknowledgement and his condolences.

“Patrick – they have come for our help,” stated Laird MacCahan, matter-of-factly.

“Our help? I have heard tell of the O’Malley strong hold and I dou-dou-doubt they n-n-nee-need our help,” Patrick retorted.

“Patrick!” Laird MacCahan roared. “You will hold your tongue,” he urged.

“Nay,” retorted Ruarc. “Tis an astute observation” he said as he walked towards Patrick and placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Your son has the right of it, Breacan; he proves his intellect through his suspicion. I would expect nothing less.” Ruarc bent down to sit, inviting Patrick to join him with a nod.

“Patrick, there is much that has been kept from you. And I mean to set it to rights.”

“Ruarc,” queried Breacan with a quizzical look, “What are you about?”

“’Tis only proper the lad be fully aware of what awaits him,” replied Ruarc.

“Enough!” roared Patrick as he rose slamming his left fist down on the top of his father’s table. “You sp-spe-speak as if I am not here; what is s-s-s-so important that I need be int-int-interrupted from my work?” asked Patrick.

“Let’s have some ale, shall we?” interjected Aengus as he passed a mug to Patrick. “This will help.”

***

Kyra was more than reluctant to return to O’Malley castle, for she knew she would be inundated with questions by Darina.
How do you explain to your cousin that her life is about to change, and she has no say over it? How do you answer the questions that you have no answers to?

Kyra stepped from her horse and handed him over to Moya, the stablewoman. Moya had kept the clans horses for as long as Kyra could remember and there was none better to tend to them. Moya had a special touch that the animals seemed to understand and respect. Not only were they extremely well cared for, Moya had seen to it that they were properly trained and could traverse even the most difficult terrain.

Moya had even taken it upon herself to outfit the clan with wagons and carpentoms which were two wheeled contraptions pulled by two horses - similar to Roman chariots. Very few clans in Ireland had such modern conveniences.

It was well past sundown, and Kyra was in dire need of a meal and a bath. She had been gone nearly seven nights. Although she knew that Darina would no doubt still be awake and eager with anticipation; she secretly hoped Darina would not wish to speak with her until the morn, so she could recuperate from her journey. But it would not be so.

Darina was anxious with anticipation. The past weeks had been long and arduous with first the death of her mother, then her father, and the sudden activities with her Uncle Ruarc leaving to MacCahan lands.

She vaguely remembered the conversation she had with her Uncle just before he sent Kyra to deliver a message – all the way to MacCahan castle. It had come upon the cloud of death in the castle. First, her mother had passed, then her father. Her sister’s had become so grief stricken that they could barely function. After her sisters had taken to their beds, Darina had to send over to the islands for servants to maintain the keep.

It was not a quick jaunt to MacCahan lands. Nay – it was nearly a five day ride for an ordinary horseman. And Ruarc and his men had left the very next morning after Kyra’s departure. “To prepare the way,” Ruarc had said. “To ensure the agreement still stands and to secure the future of the O’Malley clan.”

There was something in there about a betrothal and a marriage. I am to be married to a MacCahan?
Lord how she wished she had had more time with Ruarc prior to his departure.
But, would it really have mattered?
Darina had been so busy seeing to her grieving sisters and preparing the services and burial rites for her parents, that she had scarcely the time to grieve herself.

She knew, as the eldest, what was expected of her, and she had done her best. The guilt at having not shed one tear nearly overwhelmed her and in its place an anger arose that matched nothing she had ever felt before.

Father MacArtrey had recognized it early on and sought out Darina so fervently she feared she would go daft. “I have nothing to speak with you about, Father”, she reiterated. “I am perfectly fine. Let me be about my business.”

“Ah – but I fear you are wrong my dear. There is much anger in you. With unharnessed anger comes much danger, Darina. Many things have happened in the last fortnight and you need guidance and counsel. Your clan needs you, and your anger threatens us all,” he said.

But Darina had continued walking; passed the chapel towards the port to check on the day’s deliveries.
Work will keep my mind off of the future. My life is no longer my own, and I have no choice in which direction to take. This cannot be what my father had wished for…

MacCahan Castle

Eleven year old Braeden MacTierney had fostered with the MacCahan clan nigh since his birth. Laird MacCahan had gathered his boys the day after Braeden’s arrival to explain that the babe’s parents had perished in a ship wreck. Braeden had been brought to the clan for care by a priest from a neighboring village. Braeden’s only remaining family was a pair of widowed noblemen who had not the fortitude to raise a wee
bairn
. They would, of course, see to the babe’s comfort by providing coin and counsel, but the child needed to be reared in a community where he could learn and grown. They had even seen to it to provide the services of a wet nurse until the child could be weaned.

Patrick was fifteen summers the day that Braeden came to live with the MacCahans. Just three years after his mother’s death. Patrick had barely spoken at all until the week that Braeden arrived. He took to the infant immediately, as if he sensed a loss and longing that were kindred between the two.

After all, the child had lost his parents and he had no voice of his own. Monae, Laird MacCahan’s new wife, had taken the child to rear as one of her own. Having never had children herself, Monae gave unselfishly to the rearing of the child – and he made her proud.

Braeden was a precious child - loving, sweet and curious. He learned quickly and easily and sought to please everyone. Patrick was the perfect older brother to all his brothers, but Braeden especially had a fondness for Patrick that few understood.

Patrick regained much of the use of his voice just as Braeden was learning to speak. Although Braeden could be annoying, Patrick had an unyielding patience about him that others envied.

He had never anticipated leaving MacCahan castle. It had never entered his mind. He was to be the Laird of the MacCahan clan when his father wasn’t able. As the eldest son, it was the way. Under no circumstances could Patrick envision a suitable reason that his father would change course so drastically and dramatically - and a forced marriage at that.