Maire Read online

  PRAISE FOR LINDA WINDSOR’S

  HISTORICAL NOVELS

  The Fires of Gleannmara #1: Maire

  “Maire is a breakout book sure to find its way to many a bestseller and reader’s keeper lists, creating a whole new sub-genre where a Windsor book is going to be the classic standard to achieve.”

  —ROMANCING THE CELTIC SOUL

  “Windsor’s talent for creating a faraway land and time is flawless.”

  —ROMANTIC TIMES MAGAZINE

  “A captivating fictional chronicle of Christianity’s dawn in Ireland. Remarkable for its appeal as both a historical saga and inspirational novel Maire achieves success that few other books can boast.”

  —Suite101.com

  “This enthralling tale reveals Gods miraculous power at work and how His love conquers all. The thrilling finale will bring chills—as well as the assurance of God’s incredible omnipresence. A definite page-turner.”

  —INSPIRATIONAL ROMANCE REVIEWS

  “Maire is an exciting work of historical fiction that brings to life the Celtic heritage mindful of the great Beowulf. The current story line is exciting and fast-paced, while centering on the conflict between Christianity and Druidism. The lead couple is a charming duo and the support cast fills the Dark Ages with light.”

  —MIDWEST REVIEWER’S CHOICE

  The Fires of Gleannmara #2: Riona

  “Linda Windsor deftly weaves a tapestry of Irish myth and legend with the glory of knowing Christ, creating a masterpiece of medieval fiction. Riona is more than a novel, it’s an experience—a journey to a faraway time and place where honor and faith are lived out amid the clamor of swords. A glorious read!”

  —LIZ CURTIS HIGGS, bestselling author of Bad Girls of the Bible and Bookends

  “With a lyrical voice worthy of the Isle of Erin, Linda Windsor’s Riona is a wonderful novel, peopled with memorable characters who will lay claim to your heart. I believe I could see the green hills and feel the kiss of mist upon my cheeks with every page I read.”

  —ROBIN LEE HATCHER, Christy Award-winning author of Ribbon of Years

  The Fires of Gleannmara #3: Deirdre

  “Deirdre is an exciting early medieval inspirational romance that readers will enjoy. The story line is loaded with action and the religious message augments the tale not batters the reader. Linda Windsor continues to furbish entertaining historical tales that readers will want to obtain the previous books in this insightful series.”

  —BOOKBROWSER

  “Windsor provides a rollicking historical adventure fraught with intrigue and romance in a worthy addition to the series and to all collections.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL

  “This is a beautiful and exciting story of how wonderfully the Lord uses the imperfect to bring about his perfect and everlasting love.”

  —READER-TO-READER REVIEWS

  NOVELS BY LINDA WINDSOR

  The Fires of Gleannmara Series

  Maire

  Riona

  Deirdre

  Along Came Jones

  It Had to Be You

  Not Exactly Eden

  Hi Honey, I’m Home

  To Jim, Jeff, Kelly, and Mom—

  my wonderful family and one of God’s greatest blessings.

  I couldn’t have done this without your support—

  cooking, cleaning, laundry, encouragement, and love.

  A foreword,

  as ‘twere, from Erin’s heart…

  Gleannmara. Ah, the sound of it warms me to me earthy core. ’Tis one of me favorite spots, nestled as it is between me mist-shrouded Wicklows and the Irish Sea. The Romans, you see, once dubbed me island Scotia and me people the Scots, which is why some of me children took that name to Scotland later on… but I digress.

  I am the Emerald Isle of Ireland—Erin, for short.

  Since creation, I’ve had all kinds of names—Hibernia bein’ the first on record—and sure, I’ve seen all manner of mankind come and go. Before the Great Flood were some Greeks, and after? Well the list is considerable. Descendants of Noah’s sons—Japheth and Shem were the first, the former a settling group and latter a troublesome lot of pirates. Then came the Greeks, Parthelan at Tallaght—the graves are there to this day—and Nemedh, whose people fled the pirates from the North, for Greece and to Britain, which is named for one of the leaders, Briotan Maol.

  But the love of my God-graced green mountains and plains was never forgotten, and my children came back, like hungry babes to a mother’s breast. The Firbolgs returned first from Greece, then later the Tuatha de Dananns from the North. After a terrible clash, the latter emerged triumphant, what with their superior powers.

  Now there’s them that believed this group to have the powers of magic. I meself think the Tuatha de Dananns were not magicians, but the forefathers of today’s scientists. They were gifted with an intimate knowledge of God’s earth and its workin’s. A more primitive people could have easily mistaken such advanced learnin’ for magic power as opposed to God-given knowledge.

  No matter how much they knew, tho’, the Dananns were no match for the coming of the sons of Milidh, and me last colonization at about thirty-five hundred years before Christ. These Milesians come by sea from what’s now Spain, no small feat for that time. Here, as in the days of my creation, I saw the work of the Almighty’s hand, for the Milesians’ ancestors were none other than Phoenicians, a sea-lovin’ race blessed by the Almighty for a deed of their Scythian forefathers back in the time of Moses.

  Josephus wrote of how these Phoenicians were from a Red Sea settlement called Chiroth and how they gave aid and supplies to the Hebrew children fleeing Egypt with Moses, thereby invitin’ the pharaoh’s wrath. ’Twas no escape but by the sea, so the good Lord blessed their ships. He sent an east wind to carry them to the Iberian Peninsula where they later became the greatest navigators of the ancient world—the Phoenicians.

  ’Twas no wonder that their descendants, the Milesians, were able to sail to my shore and defeat the Dananns in battle, despite a tempest that some say the Dananns conjured with their mysterious powers. How could even those as learned as the Dananns know these were a seafaring people blessed by the hand of the Creator centuries before? To this day, some folk think the conquered Dananns shape-shifted into spirits and now live in the Other World as faeries and such. I was even called Erienn after one of their queens.

  Me own account, howsomeever, is that the Dananns what got away hid themselves in the hills, where they lived as hermits and continued their studies of the earth and stars. For all that, they remained as much in darkness as their victors, still worshipin’ the creations instead of the Creator…that is, until the comin’ of the Gospel Light.

  It’s thought the apostle Paul referred to me in his letters as “the green island to the north” lightin’ the first spark, which gradually was fanned into a Pentecostal fire by the teachers of the truth who followed. This is further verified by the pagan druid history of the Star of Bethlehem and of the darkness on the day of Christ’s crucifixion. Some think the Magi themselves might have been druid astrologers and kings who knew by the signs that something was amiss.

  The way me children embraced that Gospel Light made me proud enough to bust. Druids and kings who sought truth and light gave up their wealth and prestige to become servants of the one God. No other country in the history of the world produced more missionaries than me own fair land. And if I might say so, ’tis meself whom man credits today for saving civilization when the rest of the earth sank into the dark age of the barbarians.

  Now the tale I’m fixin’ to tell is about the comin’ of God’s Word to the hills and vales of tuatha Gleannmara. The spark of the gospel kindled there burns this very day in the hearts of its children, despite the tribulations of corruptio
n and invasion spawned by the prince of darkness his own self.

  Make yourself comfortable and read the story of Rowan, whose heart is as noble as it is brave, and of Maire (that’s MOY-ruh), the pagan warrior queen who found love in his arms.

  NOTE: Now for them what has neither the eye nor the tongue of a Gael, take a gander at the glossary in the back for more on a few o’ the names, places, customs, and legends referred to in me story. Here’s hopin’ ye take a likin’ to it all.

  ONE

  Growling with battle fury, Rowan of Emrys wrenched his sword from the rib cage of the tattooed barbarian. There was no time to study his vanquished foe’s sightless, staring eyes or dwell upon the carnage their brief encounter wrought upon his body. The heathens swarmed like angry hornets over the walls of the frontier guard post, stinging with primitive yet deadly weapons wielded with a skill that Rowan had to admire.

  Beyond the pile of bodies that evidenced Rowan’s own training, one of his comrades now struggled, outnumbered two to one. As Rowan started to his aid, a hideous, otherworldly scream clawed through the air, plucking with icy fingers at the hair on his arms and raking up his spine. A spear of fire plunged into his back, spreading to sear the muscle of his well-developed torso, jerking him into an arch over it.

  Blind with pain, he pulled himself together with sheer instinct and brought his blade around full circle, swinging at the source. It was then that he saw the shrieking banshee. Her hair was a wild tangle of lime; her painted face as grotesque and fierce as that of any man the mercenary had ever met on the field. No doubt the blood staining Rowan’s sword belonged to her mate. Yet it was not her wildness or her fierceness that made Rowan flinch. It was the sight of his sharp blade slicing into her middle—a middle swollen with child.

  With wide eyes black as sin, she dropped her weapon and grabbed at her belly in disbelief. Bile rose to the back of Rowan’s throat at what had transpired before his very eyes, at what he could no more stop than the battle raging around him. He—the most decorated and youngest captain of the border guard—was going to be sick. Sick at what he’d done, sick at the pain viciously gnawing its way through him.…

  Rowan ap Emrys tossed on his bed, scattering the fine linens, but the bloody vision of battle and that of the last victim he’d struck down wouldn’t leave. Not yet. Nor would the pain that burned into the scar on his back.

  The dream was so real. His stomach lurched to no avail, except to add to agony.

  Just when he could bear it no more, the bloody visage shape-shifted into a whole woman again. She was a warrior, with a wild mane of red hair and fierce green eyes that could warm a stone—or shatter it. A torque of gold about her neck betrayed her royal status. With the grace of the willow and the strength of the sacred oak, she extended her hand to Rowan and—

  “Master Rowan!”

  She was gone.

  Rowan came up from his bed, wiping the perspiration from his brow. He squinted in the early morning sun at his steward. “What is it, Dafydd?”

  He couldn’t be angry with the man for sending the beauteous creature away. Like a faerie, she always vanished before Rowan managed to touch her.

  “The Scots have landed at the village. There’s smoke rising over the ridge as we speak!”

  Smoke. There’d been resistance. Rowan swore. “I warned those fishermen that if the Irish raided, to stand aside and let them take plunder rather than lives! Gold can be replaced; loved ones cannot.”

  “Lady Delwyn is seeing to our valuables, and I’ve already sounded the alarm.”

  Rowan pulled on a coarse linen robe over his naked flesh. The remnant perspiration from the dream hampered the material as he shook it down over his considerable frame. The rough scrape of the material against his skin was a stark contrast to the fine sheets of his bed. He hadn’t heard the horn’s blast. All he’d heard was that horrible scream…

  Well, like as not, it was too late to help the villagers anyway.

  “Assemble the men. I’ll meet them outside the courtyard. We’ll make a stand here.”

  “Aye, it’s too late to do the village much good.”

  As the steward dutifully hurried off, Rowan struggled on with his boots. The noise of battle still filled his ears, though the village was too far away for it to travel. The nightmare never released him easily. Upon strapping his sword at his waist, he was surprised that it didn’t feel strange though he’d not used it since that day of battle, long ago. He’d prayed he’d never have to use it again, but that didn’t seem to be the case today—not if his parents’ estate and the lives of those who lived here were to be spared.

  He ran through the chaos of the household preparing for the raid. Stepping outside, he shook the last of the banshee’s yell from his beleaguered brain. There was no time to console his mother or to see his invalid father safely moved to the chapel of the villa. Like the house and buildings itself, his parents belonged to another time—one of a peace protected by Rome. The passage of time since the last of the legions withdrew had eroded the villagers’ youth—as well their ability to protect themselves from the barbarian attacks that ensued.

  Like heralds of destruction, spirals of smoke drifted toward the villa from the nearby village on the sea. Dafydd stood speaking with a young lad Rowan recognized from the village. It was Dafydd’s brother’s son.

  “Some of the villagers thought they could stop them,” the breathless youth was saying. He shot Rowan an apologetic look. “Father and Justinian tried to tell them not to fight.”

  “It’s natural to defend one’s home. Just not wise in this case,” Rowan answered. “How many are dead?”

  “Six that I know of. Justinian is gathering the wounded at the wood near the village’s edge.”

  The Celts found no honor in slaughter; only a good fight made their blood boil.

  “And Justinian himself?”

  “Well; but sore that they set fire to the church even after he gave them what they demanded.”

  Rowan could well imagine how his usually mild mentor and teacher of the Word had ruffled at such an insult. With the same fervor that the priest now embraced the teachings of the faith, he once had embraced the life of a pirate and rogue. Not much different from Rowan himself, save Rowan’s rowdier days were sanctioned by the law. Justinian’s had not been. “And your father?”

  The boy shook his head. “Mad as the priest over the fire. He can’t blame the Scots for fighting with those who resisted.”

  “Well, I can!” Dafydd’s words came hot and fierce. “Cursed heathens that they are, they should all be put to death for killin’ innocent folk.”

  “Whether their swords drip with innocent blood or not, they’re coming this way now,” Rowan said to no one in particular. And then his own sword would drip blood for the first time since—

  He turned abruptly from the thought and assessed the chaos in and around the villa. Dafydd had done well—exactly as Rowan had trained him to do in the event of a Scotti raid. Servants rushed to prepare as they could, joined by the chaotic influx of families who flocked to the villa at the sound of the warning horn.

  God willing, these precautions will not be needed.

  Pray God, no blood would be drawn, nor fire set to the place his parents had so lovingly built. It was a rare symbol of a better time before Gaelic replaced Latin as the common tongue and the villas gave way to roundhouses on the landscape. Still, Rowan would fight if need be to preserve his family home, just as his father, a much decorated Roman general, had done many years before.

  “Rowan.”

  The sound of his mother’s voice was like a gentling calm on the roar of his blood, which was gradually stirring to a tempest by the prospect of impending battle. Despite his adoption by a Romanized family of Wales, his blood was the same as those who came to plunder them. God help him, there was still a part of him that flushed with excitement at the prospect of battle.

  He felt his fierce features soften into a smile as Delwyn ap Emrys laid a jew
eled hand upon his arm.

  “The valuables are buried, but I dread seeing the house torn asunder by the raiders’ pillage.”

  The adoration of the sun’s fingers on the artistically crafted gold setting of her ring, in which were nestled some of nature’s most precious stones, snagged his distracted attention.

  “All valuables buried? Not your ring, I see.” Heathen raiders or not, his mother would never take off the wedding ring Demetrius had given her when she was a bride of sixteen. The gems and metal were forged by the hands of time, as was his parents’ love for each other.

  “I just can’t bring myself to take it off,” she apologized with a reticent twitch of her lips.

  And she would not have to give it up, God willing, Rowan thought. “I promise to do all God would have me do to avoid that. I’ve a plan.”

  Lady Delwyn’s face brightened momentarily with pride before a loving concern shadowed it. “You’ll not risk harm.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  He had discovered how precious was the life God had given him, unlike the day he’d been brought to this place from the Pictish frontier, a wounded and broken warrior wanting death.

  But well he knew that second chances at a good life did not come without a price. God had given him time to heal and blessed him with abundance. Despite his prayers to the contrary, he must now take up the blood-sullied sword of his past to save all he cared about. Hopefully, it was God’s plan that was forming in his mind as he assessed Emrys’s situation in the path of the raiders.

  Rowan didn’t want to worry his mother with his bold plan. He hoped the belligerent Scotti would weary of bloodshed by the time they reached Emrys and agree to his idea for determining the outcome of their trespass on Welsh soil.

  “I’ll try the voice of reason first.”

  His mother’s brows arched. “Reason with heathens?”