“It took a long time and a lot of work but now I truly consider myself free,” he said. “Thank you for everything you did for me.”
“Oh, Brendan, it was nothing. You befriended me when I had no one. I could not leave without trying to share my good fortune with my friends. I know Erik was reluctant at first but now he does not regret it for a moment. He is a good man with a kind heart.”
At that moment, the baby stirred with a squeak.
“Is that a baby I hear?” asked Brendan, his eyes lighting up.
Tara rose to her feet. “I will get her,” she said.
A moment later, she returned with a neatly wrapped bundle. “This is Ealga,” she announced proudly. A tiny face with curious round eyes peered from the bundle and Brendan could see wisps of red hair on the smooth little head. “She is beautiful,” he said. “I am glad you have found happiness.”
“I give thanks to God every day for hearing my prayers to return to my homeland,” she said. “Yet, I am also thankful that I was taken as a slave. I would not have met Erik otherwise. Everything I went through was worth it to find him.”
As he came through the door, Erik smiled to himself as he overheard her words. There was no doubt now that his wife loved him. Surely, he was the most blessed man alive. He would join her in giving thanks to her God.
LOVED IT? DIDN’T LOVE IT?
Did you enjoy the story of Tara? Were there things you thought could have been better? Why not leave a review and tell others about your experience? Your feedback helps me to know what my readers like so that I can create something even better in the future.
Kaitlynn xx
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GLOSSARY
NOTE: Some of the words in this glossary are Old Norse swear words. Ignorance is bliss if they are likely to offend :-).
OLD NORSE
ENGLISH
Jarl
Earl
Karl
Freeborn resident
Heill
Greeting
Dubh Linn
Dublin
Bacraut
Asshole
Bikkja
Bitch
Írskr
Irish
Finngail (Gaelic)
Vikings
Haust
Autumn, harvest
Amma
Grandmother
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While every effort has been made to preserve historical accuracy throughout this story, some elements of Norse culture remain a mystery or are disputed among historians. Therefore, some aspects of Norse life and beliefs have been “borrowed” from the known practices of surrounding nations while others are fictitious.
Aeveen: Healer of Ráith Mór (Sneak Peek)
Forced to leave her village. Taken prisoner. She’s saved so many, but can he save her?
In one swift attack by the Vikings, the life that Aeveen knows comes to an end. Grieving over the loss of her beloved teacher, she is forced to flee to the fortress at Ráith Mór, home of the handsome but unhelpful Lord Neíll Mac Carthaigh.
She goes to work assisting the injured, but things go from bad to worse when she runs into conflict with the Lord himself. Only her skills save her from immediate banishment.
Her reputation as a healer grows and one day, a rival clan demands her services, threatening trouble if she fails to comply. Lord Mac Carthaigh reluctantly agrees and she leaves to attend to the sick and injured.
Soon after she arrives, the Vikings attack, kidnapping her along with several other women. When Lord Mac Carthaigh finds out, he is desperate to save her. Will he find her in time? Will he have the opportunity to tell her what’s on his heart? Or has he left it too late?
This short, clean novella is set in Ireland in the days of the great kings; a time when Vikings raided, clans fought and adventure lurked around every corner. It is Book 1 in the Maids Of Ulaid series. It can be read as a standalone or enjoyed as part of the series.
CHAPTER 1
“Aeveen. Those herbs won’t crush themselves, you know,” he reminded her as she idly pushed the pestle around in the mortar.
Fleeting memories of her mother’s red hair and soothing songs wafted through her mind as she inhaled the rich woody notes of the rosemary.
“Aeveen Indechta. Focus.”
She hated it when he called her that. He meant well, of course. When Aeveen had first arrived in Glenn Indechta as a 6-year-old, her father was too sick to explain what had happened to her mother. Too sick to say where they had come from. Too sick to even give his name before he’d died of that terrible esláinte. Liaig Pearse had taken her in, given her the town’s name, and made her his apprentice.
“Aeveen!”
The irritation in his voice brought her back to the task at hand.
“Aren’t you finished yet?” Her teacher had little time for her musings, and she quickly remembered all the work that remained.
“You should be grateful,” the villagers would remind her when she complained of his occasional grouchiness. “To learn from a liaig is an honour indeed.”
She’d grown up tending to the village herb garden, or lubgort as her teacher called it, and helping tend to the sick. Liaig Pearse treated her with feigned indifference, ordering her to fetch this and that, but she knew in his heart that he cared for her. Without him, without kin, she would have died of starvation and illness long ago. Instead, he had taken her in and taught her to decipher the rhythms of sickness and healing, famine and plenty, life and death.
They came again with the rolling fog early in the spring. Aeveen heard the tolling of the alarm bell; the lowest, largest bell in the monastery. For a moment it stopped, then started, its mournful tones warning of death and destruction. Her teacher came in, wordlessly
