Foretold Page 2

  When he heard approaching footsteps, he clutched the book and prayed silently.

  A sword sliced through the square box holding the hives, missing the top of Sean’s head by mere inches. Just over the top of the jagged ends of the wooden box stood the tall blond man he’d seen earlier. Sean noticed a faint buzzing coming from the opened box. The bees were slowly waking because of the temperature.

  He held the book tight to his chest and slowly stood in front of the Norseman. He tilted his head back to see the face of the man who stood a head taller than his own height of five and a half feet. Sean took note of this man’s appearance before he was to meet God.

  The Norseman’s face was framed by long blonde hair, a mustache and beard that went down to his chest. Brilliant sapphire blue eyes stared at Sean. The snarling red wolf design on the man’s leather jerkin appeared poised to attack.

  The Norseman withdrew his sword and pointed it toward the book Sean held.

  Trembling, Sean shook his head in defiance. He would not willingly give up the prized book.

  The man turned away for a moment, then the back of his hand came back around and hit Sean across his cheek, knocking him to the ground. The book slipped from his grasp.

  Momentarily stunned, Sean peeked through half-closed eyelids. The man snatched the book from the ground. Sean tried to keep his body from trembling when he heard the Norseman’s throaty grumble.

  Sean remained motionless as beads of sweat trickled down his forehead.

  The faint crinkling of pages of vellum being flipped through, tensed Sean’s nerves further, then the book slamming closed almost made him jump out his skin.

  The buzzing came closer. Sean opened one eye. The man was cautiously surveying the surrounding area. Then, the Norsemen plucked the jewels from their setting on the bookbinding, and tossed them in small drawstring satchel at his waist.

  “Ow!” the man yelled.

  Sean’s eyes flew open. The man whirled around, trying to combat the bees. He flung the heavy book at the attacking insects. It crashed to the ground near Sean. Moving quickly, Sean snatched it up, scrambled to his feet and dashed towards the bushes near the apiary. He silently thanked God for sparing his life while he watched the Norseman run back towards the monastery, bees close behind.

  For the rest of the night, Sean remained in hiding, a silent witness, while books and manuscripts were heaped into a pile, and set ablaze.

  Swift as the Norsemen arrived, they clamored back to their long ships, taking with them all the monastic treasure they could carry, finally departing the shores of Iona, while black smoke filled the air.

  “MEOW.”

  Sean gasped when he heard the soft call of his furry friend, bent his head down and smiled to see Simon at his feet. Sitting upright, Sean placed the lid over the inkwell. Glancing at the book, he examined a bird he drew soon after the raid, noticing he used unique blue ink for feathers. The rare and prized ultramarine ink used to highlight special areas of the manuscript reminded Sean of the Norseman’s eyes that fateful night. Closing the book, Sean hoped his work on the book did not disappoint Abbott Matthew, even if only in his memory.

  The tapestry fluttered against the open casement once more, and Sean pushed his wooden chair back from the table. He picked up Simon, cradling the cat in his arms while he shuffled over to the heavy oak door and opened it slightly.

  While stroking the cat’s neck, Sean listened. The rain continued to beat hard against the door, sounding like the bodhrán, a goatskin drum the people of the island use during their celebrations. Three nights before, he had silently wandered to a protected grove to witness the Samhain festival at Brugh Na Bóinne. He observed the rituals performed by the Priestess, as he remained hidden, although he could not hear what she said from his vantage point.

  Sean noticed only a small number of women attended this celebration given that the decree of Pope Gregory IV, two years before, had proclaimed a Church Holiday of ‘All Saints Day’ on the first day of November.

  Although the local King converted, Sean knew he maintained some traditions and allowed his High Druid his fire festivals, as precaution against anything that would make crops fail and the prized cattle starve.

  A splash of rainwater against his cheek startled him to the storm outside. The cat sprang from his arms and ran back into the room, shaking the water from his head. Sean inhaled the air that blew in. He gazed outside once more, then pushed the door closed behind him and slid home the large square-cut wooden bar, just in case he was wrong about the storm.

  Chapter 3

  “We must turn back!” Aric yelled.

  As he struggled with the tiller to keep the dragon ship faced into the fierce wind, rain fell in streams down Lothar’s bearded face. Concentrating on remaining afloat in the storm, he ignored his burly friend.

  “These waves are rocking Fafnir as though it is a twig, not a fully loaded ship,” Ivarr bellowed.

  “Losing sight of the land and falling off the edge of the world is not what I have in mind,” Starri hollered from his perch at the dragonhead of the ship.

  “Nor I,” Lothar finally shouted, with a broad smile to reassure the crew. “Thor will see us through this tempest, like he always has. The Runes have told us of our success.” He patted the symbol stones in the drawstring pouch on his leather belt. The same runes the Seiðrs, Magda and Selvina, used to privately interpret the voyage success two full moons ago.

  “You, Lothar, will find what your heart truly seeks in a new land,” the two aged shaman sisters foretold.

  Another pounding wave slammed across the ship’s hull at that moment, breaking two oars.

  “Pull in the rest,” Lothar commanded, watching the storm winds and freezing rain pelt them with liquid ice, shredding the sail, while towering waves crashed over the side of the ship.

  Lothar shook his head, doubting the shaman sisters’ ramblings as lightning flashed nearby. “The Midgard Serpent may try to smash us to bits, but I have no desire to go to Aegir’s Hall at the bottom of the sea yet!”

  “I have heard that the King of the Sea has the grandest of all the festivities that are attended by the Gods.” Aric’s eyes twinkled with delight while the wind’s fury carried his laughter to the rest of the crew.

  “Get ready for the festivities,” Starri yelled.

  Lothar turned as the monster wave rose over Fafnir’s hull, breaking the long wooden oars. He watched while his men, exhausted and drenched, were thrown against the side planks. The storm drowned out the crew’s screaming. He closed his eyes and hoped that the ship would carry them all to Aegir’s Hall for a hero’s celebration.

  Lothar opened his eyes and turned to a voice shouting directly behind him. Suddenly he roared in piercing pain. He gazed down at the wooden stake protruding from his shoulder. Raising his head, he glowered at the cloaked figure in front of him before being engulfed in silent blackness.

  LOTHAR MOANED AND SQUEEZED his eyes shut as rays of early sunlight filtered through white clouds, lying still until the throbbing from his left shoulder subsided enough for him to move. He slowly opened his eyes and tried to focus on where he was. He raised his head, shaking free the gritty sand particles from his beard. He glanced at the front of his tunic, thanking Odin that the wooden stake was gone, yet noticing blood trickle down.

  “Loki be damned,” he swore silently.

  Lothar lay listening to the rolling surf while the rising sun warmed his body. The peaceful lull was broken by familiar sounds of creaking wooden wheels, and plodding of hooves, moving toward the dune where he lay. Ignoring his injured shoulder, he turned his body towards the approaching horse and cart. Crouching in sparse weeds at the edge of dry land, Lothar hid as best he could. His vision cleared as he scanned the shoreline.

  He spied Aric lying face down in the surf. Was his friend alive? He waited for Aric to move. Unsure of where he came ashore, he remained still while he watched the cart come closer to Aric’s lifeless body.

  He watched
the driver pull on the reins to stop a robust pony and then climb down from the small cart.

  “A woman,” Lothar whispered in surprise. He could just make out the ends of her long red hair fluttering in the breeze. He waited to see what she would do when she walked over to the stout man. Her green woolen cloak opened slightly to reveal a light, tan-colored linen dress. Her soft leather shoes left shallow imprints in the sand.

  He kept an eye on her while she bent to Aric’s body and removed the tangled seaweed and other debris that had washed ashore alongside. He was astonished at the effort she used when she managed to turn his friend over onto his back.

  Lothar chuckled to himself when she fell backwards. He knew that the circular symbol of ægishjálmr tattooed on Aric’s forehead just below his dark hair frightened her like others who encountered the burly man.

  He lay there captivated; the dress had risen to her knees, twisting the material against her hips revealing shapely calves with creamy white skin. Lothar groaned silently, shifting his body position to tamper down his expanding member when heat rushed between his legs. He concentrated on the peaceful rolling surf, and the sea birds that called to each other, while he remained motionless, observing the female.

  She stood and straightened her clothes. He waited, wishing for her to get back into her cart and leave. Then he could take care of his friend himself, and forget about her.

  He watched in amazement as the woman bent down again and brushed away a few sand fleas and spiders that crawled over Aric’s face and beard.

  Lothar slowly raised himself off the dry sand. Watching her movements while she examined the body, he silently walked towards the woman.

  The pony whined and shook his head when Lothar neared the cart. He stroked the animal’s neck, soothing the creature into silence. The fact that the woman remained oblivious to the animal’s warning puzzled him. He listened while she scrutinized Aric’s body aloud.

  “He must have drowned in last night’s storm,” he overheard her say.

  Lothar recognized most of her words, words that were spoken in English. Not his normal Nordic language, nor Gaelic, but he understood the language from his own mother and other thralls.

  He stepped around the animal towards the woman.

  “Who are you?” Lothar demanded, striding towards the distracted female.

  THE DEEPLY ACCENTED voice startled Dara. She spun her head towards the man behind her, and slowly rose to her feet. She stepped back and gazed at the bearded blond man who stood a full head taller than she. Her gaze traveled along his sinewy body, noting he wore a light brown leather tunic with an emblem of a wolf. It was stained with a dark patch of color from a jagged tear on his left shoulder. A drawstring pouch hung from a leather belt at his waist. The rest of his clothing tapered down to the brown leggings that clung to his lean muscular legs.

  A sudden rush, she couldn’t recognize came over her, making her cheeks hot, leaving her unable to move for a brief moment when she stared into his eyes, blue as the aquamarine surf.

  A passing seagull’s shrill call broke her gaze, and cleared her mind. Coming back to her senses, she turned to scramble back to the wooden cart.

  She felt a hand wrap around her arm, not harshly, but with enough force to make her stop. The strange man spun her to face him.

  “Who are you?” he asked again in a hoarse voice.

  She looked up at the beard and his sun-bronzed cheeks to find his sparkling blue eyes again. “Dara Rogan,” she answered. Her gaze traveled to the small braids tracing the outline of each side of his head against the rest of his untamed hair.

  “Where am I?”

  She noticed that the tone of his voice was less demanding, but still forceful.

  “Hibernia.” Her voice sounded more unnerved than she would have liked. Once more she felt the heat rising to her cheeks as the man detained her there.

  He grimaced.

  Unexpectedly, the man dropped his hold on her arm, turned towards the nearby dune, and staggered away.

  Dara raced back to Sinséar, her sorrel Connemara pony, and grabbed its lead rope. She gave the rope a quick pull and edged away from the man. She hesitantly watched him approach the sandy embankment, then stumble to the ground.

  Dara halted Sinséar. She stared at the man lying prone on his stomach in the sand with his head twisted awkwardly to the side.

  Wary, but concerned, she cautiously stepped over to him. She noted his blonde beard and hair with warrior braids in disarray. She squatted close to his body, and turned him onto his back, ready to run in case he attacked.

  “Thank the goddess,” she whispered, feeling free to survey the man’s injuries without those blue eyes gazing back at her.

  She watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, but his erratic breathing worried her while she deliberated what to do next.

  As a healer, she realized her obligation was to treat his wounds regardless of her own personal safety, reasoning that he had not hurt her before he collapsed.

  “Are you from across the sea somewhere?” she whispered. “Francia maybe? Or another Norseman, like the one of those who captured my friend Colleen, last year?”

  Looking for further clues to his origins, Dara cautiously removed the drawstring pouch from his waist, opened the bag and dropped the contents on the sand beside him. She picked up the small flat stones and examined them. Each stone had a different marking upon it, all lines and angles, forming a type of symbol unknown to her.

  Intrigued by her discovery, Dara wondered why this man carried these stones with him. She put them back into the pouch and tied it to the thin leather belt at her waist. Uncertain of her feelings, she inspected the deep gash in his left shoulder; fresh blood trickled out of the narrow opening of his tunic.

  Carefully as she could, Dara removed the tunic from his body, revealing the contoured muscles of his chest underneath. She sensed the heat rising to her face again, and not just from the effort she used to undress him.

  Searching for a temporary way to stop the blood from flowing out of his shoulder, she ripped off the bottom few inches of her linen dress. Placing the material upon the wound, she securely tied the ends in place around his chest to hold the wound closed.

  Dara grabbed his tunic and threw it out to sea. On her way back from the water’s edge, she noticed the wide cuffs of gold upon his wrists. She twisted the golden bands to the side, slid them off, and his wrists squeezed through the narrow opening on the underside. She carefully examined them. The design on each of the cuffs was tapered circles of smoothed yellow-gold with the same wolf emblazoned on one side as was on the tunic she’d tossed into the sea. Holding the cuffs, she stared at the wolf design and felt uneasy.

  She rose, stepped over to the cart, and placed them inside for safekeeping. She determined she could have them melted down by the metallurgist and use the gold to pay her taxes and purchase more goods at the market in Droicheada next month. King Malachy had been pressing for more gold to fund building a fortress to protect the settlement against attacks by other Kings of Hibernia, as well as Norsemen and Danes. She removed the pouch from her waist and set it alongside the cuffs.

  She decided that the best way to help him was to get him to her home.

  Dara heard a soft moan come from the man. She walked back to him. His eyes were half open. She lightly tapped his face to keep him awake.

  “I need your help to get you into the cart,” Dara said to him slowly. Then with a great amount of effort, she struggled to place the semi-unconscious man in the back of her cart. Catching her breath, she surveyed the stranger. He appeared harmless enough, she told herself while noticing how smooth were the lines of his face. His eyes were closed again, and his breathing was more regular. His long legs hung from the back of the small cart. She picked out a natural-colored blanket from the front of the cart and wrapped it over him for warmth.

  “He may be harmless for now,” said a warning voice in the back of her mind, “but will he remain that way when
he wakes up?”

  Chapter 4

  Dara strode up, grabbed Sinséar’s lead, and steered the sturdy pony and cart past the body of the man lying on the sand. She felt a shiver go up her spine as she took one last look at the body, its brown eyes transfixed in a dead man’s stare.

  She shook away the feeling of uncertainty while she walked towards home with her pony, and the strange man in her cart.

  During the journey back home, the cart sank into the muddy soil twice, then again when she stopped Sinséar for a drink at the river.

  “Returning home should have been easier than this,” Dara vented while she pushed the cart from behind for the third time.

  Leaving earlier in the morning, she had cleared the fallen branches from the trail when she and her pony and cart were on their way to the village. She didn’t know that she’d be returning home so soon, and with someone injured.

  Dara heard mumbling from the back of the cart. She stopped the pony again to check on the man. Thankfully, his blue eyes were closed. She was relieved by the steady rise and fall of his chest under the blanket. He mumbled again, words unfamiliar to her. Yet, he slept.

  She tried to guide the pony again, but the brief stop had allowed the wheels of the cart to become stuck for a fourth time. Working with the pony, she rocked the cart back and forth until it moved freely. Sweat drenched her forehead.

  Finally free of the mud, and with another hour of trudging in the muck, the trail opened into a small clearing. The welcoming calls of her three sheep made her smile while traipsed to her hut. The sheep huddled together inside the corral, still wide-eyed and skittish from being out in the storm all night.