Day: February 16, 2008

Southern Ireland, late July 1169

The splendid hall was filled almost to overflowing. One stranger more or less would not be noticed. The hooded figure materialized by a pillar in the far corner of the room, opposite the entrance, and sat down. He observed every female in the room with a keen eye as though searching for someone.

The main jollity in the room was focused around a tall, stunning young woman. The newcomer stared hard, watching everyone in the small family group, trying to learn more about them all.

“Congratulations to my cousin Dairinn upon this joyous occasion!” Fergus toasted in front of the assembled guests.

“Beannacht libh, a thaisce. Blessings upon you both, treasure,” her cousin Conn declared.

“May you be as happy in your marriage as your uncle and I, may God rest his soul, and may you live to have a dozen sons,” her aunt Mebh saluted in turn.

“This betrothal will signal even greater peace and prosperity here in Leinster. You’ve made an old man very happy, mo chroi,” her father said, beaming as he called her by his special pet name, ‘my heart.’

The stranger never took his eyes off the auburn-haired beauty they had called Dairinn. Ye gods, she was the one? They could be truly generous after all.

He watched, unobserved behind his pillar, as the lovely young girl mingled with the multitude of noble guests assembled in the great hall at Rathkeel. She graciously served them with wine and a variety of delicacies as she welcomed everyone to her betrothal feast according to tradition.

She was dressed in the finest gown the shadowy stranger had ever seen, a most breathtaking woman to behold. The dress was a rich amber velvet embroidered with elaborate gold and russet animal patterns at the neckline, wrists, and hem. The hue of the gown set off perfectly her unbound auburn hair, the color of autumn leaves, which flowed down her back to well below her waist in a mass of thick curls, and emphasized her limpid sable brown eyes. The top opening enhanced her swan-like neck, delicate shoulders, and pale flawless skin. The rich fabric molded to her shapely bosom before falling in graceful folds over her small but rounded hips, the fabric cascading down to the floor, where it swept the rushes with its long train. The lavish gold girdle which she wore as her only ornament accentuated her willowy figure, completing the elegant ensemble.

The tall dark man knew that Dairinn would have been the center of the room’s attention even had the festivities not been in her honor. She was almost statuesque with her poise and elegance, a rare jewel in this predominantly male setting. She shimmered in the torchlight, radiant in her happiness and contentment with her family at her side.

As she passed nearer to him to fill another cup, he could detect the fragrance which swirled about her, an alluring combination of musk, and the floral and woodsy scents of the glorious Irish landscape with which she communed daily.

She was nothing if not tempting. And she was to be his! Senan could hardly believe his good fortune.

Not a man in the room could take his eyes off Dairinn. She was like a lodestone to which all men were drawn. But it was not simply because of her noble birth, the stranger concluded. Though she came from one of the most powerful clans in the southeast of Ireland, there was a certain warmth and lack of aristocratic reserve about her which all men found inviting.

He could hear all their thoughts as clearly as if they had spoken them aloud. They came to him in a wild whirl. He wished he could hear her mind more clearly, to be sure she was indeed the right one. But with so many people in the room, it was hard to block all of their thoughts out and focus.

As he peeped out from behind the pillar, the shadowy figure could sense a lack of mirth in certain quarters. On the part of Dairinn’s family, many of the men envied the tall, haughty-looking Norman wearing the betrothed’s garland of flowers. As they ate heartily of the many savory dishes which were placed before them by a bevy of servants, all praised her housewifely skills. Dairinn’s knowledge of housekeeping, cooking, and herbal medicines was proclaimed second to none. Here was a wife who would make her husband proud, so long as the husband was deserving of her. But though many of the O’Ciardha sept had doubts about the bridegroom’s worthiness, they kept it to themselves for the sake of peace.

The enigmatic stranger watched as the great warriors from her own clan patted her fondly on the shoulder as she moved up and down the rows of tables. He listened to their thought, memories, recollections of the woman he did not yet know, but would have to become acquainted with soon if the prophecies were to be fulfilled.

He learnt that Dairinn had been a comrade and friend to them always, through good times and bad, ever since she had been old enough to sit astride a horse. Some of the men even made so bold as to plant a smacking kiss on her lips or cheeks, earning scowls of disapproval from Hugo du Balleroi, Dairinn’s intended.

The stranger could hear the tall, thin Norman’s thoughts. He was perhaps the only man in the room who was unimpressed with Dairinn, more fool him.

Really, these Irish were so uncivilized, Hugo reflected to himself haughtily as he drank what he considered to be the dreadfully inferior wine, and observed his fiancée mingling with her family and their allies and foster-sons and daughters.

Who ever heard of a noblewoman waiting on her underlings hand and foot? Or a woman who strutted around in breeches hunting day and night with her male cousins, who wore kilts, showing their bare legs like savages?

He would certainly put paid to that sort of unseemly behavior, and other less savory Irish pastimes, such as hurling and peile, once they were safely wed. Even if he had to lock her up in the compound, he thought, a moue of distaste twisting his arrogant, tight-lipped mouth.

“She’s beautiful and rich, but really, they’re only barbarians,” he remarked to his companion Francis de Beaumaine.

His companion was black-haired, swarthy, with the most hideous battle-scar running down one side of his face, cruelly marring his otherwise perfect features.

De Beaumaine laughed, wiped the grease off his mouth onto his sleeve, and then thumped a servant girl soundly on the rump, sending her flying. He helped himself to a huge leg of lamb, and then agreed with a huge belch.

“Aye, my lord, they are indeed horrible, apart from the comely wench you’ll have to warm your bed at night. As for the rest, I can’t wait for the chance to wipe them from the face of the earth. I saw them playing peile this morning, and it was just as you described. Imagine kicking about the severed heads of your enemies up and down a field for sport. These people are pagans. You should send a letter to the Pope. You have an uncle in Rome, do you not? I am sure he could help you get a blessing from His Holiness to engage in a crusade against these savages. I’m sure even the Moors and Turks are not as bad as these Celts.”

He belched again as he fingered the hilt of his dagger gleefully.

Hugo shook his head. “You’ll get your chance soon, Francis. But there’s more than one way of skinning a cat, as you well know. Why risk our small band of comrades when we can pay others to do the work for us?” He smirked, his thin lips stretching to an even thinner line.

Even Dairinn sensed something amiss at the feast. She cast a worried glance at Hugo from across the great hall. Not for the first time, she wondered why he perpetually wore the expression of a man who had drunk vinegar. Didn’t these Normans ever smile or laugh? They seemed to do nothing but eat, drink, quarrel and stare that she could see.

Hugo, to give him his due, had behaved towards her politely enough, even if he did look somewhat askance at her as she trotted around her estate overseeing the daily routine at Rathkeel.

She could sense his wariness, and wondered if it was because he was had misgivings about her capacities or desirability as a wife. Though she was only eighteen, she knew she appeared even younger due to her large sable brown eyes, which she had inherited from her mother. Hugo might think she was not up to the task of running a well-ordered Irish or even Norman-type household.

On the other hand, she knew she had an acute intelligence and wit which had often caused her father Peadar to wish she had been born a boy. Her sharp tongue had scared away many a faint-hearted suitor before now. Indeed, at eighteen she might have been considered by some to have been a loser in the matrimonial stakes.

But despite her father’s wishful thinking, with her straight nose, high rosy cheekbones, and deep crimson lips, Senan noted, unable to keep his eyes off her, Dairinn was completely feminine. Alluringly so. Her habit of looking directly at the person to whom she was speaking with her winsome eyes only served to reinforce the impression that here was a true woman, soft, yielding, and absolutely incapable of guile.

Yet appearances could be deceptive, the tall dark stranger knew. Her iron will and strength emerged but seldom. Nevertheless, it was the match of any man’s.

As Dairinn made her way around the room, chatting amiably to all, welcoming each visitor to the feast, she reflected proudly that she had succeeded at last in doing what she had always dreamt of one day. She had found a husband who was strong and kind, who would be willing to let her stay in her family home Rathkeel forever. Surrounded by friends and family, and the stunning beauty of the Vale of Avoca, her happiness would be complete.

Ever since she had been of marriageable age she had rejected every suitor, of which there had been many, on the grounds that she couldn’t bear to be parted from her home. She had had no illusions as to the motives for these proposals. She was wealthy, well-born, and highly connected. But she had had no desire to be separated from all she loved at Rathkeel. Now she would never have to be, she reflected with a self-satisfied smile as she gazed around the feast hall, a warm, well-appointed pillared rectangular room with a hearth at each end.

She noted with pride that the room was well-lit with home-made torches, and every table illuminated with fine candles made from beeswax in clever holders fitted into the tables. In honor of their Norman guests and the great occasion, the ever-present hunting dogs were confined to their kennels outside, and the floor was now strewn with fresh sweet-smelling rushes. Dairinn had always tried to keep the pack outdoors, but the men were careless coming and going in their huge compound, and a good hunting dog was really a member of the family in their culture.

But Dairinn did enjoy a few luxuries, and made scented soaps, potpourri, and sachets herself in order to try to keep the often crowded, smoky stronghold fresh smelling. Servants brought around basins of warm water so that the guests could wash their hands between courses, and they also picked up the discarded bones and orts of food the celebrants frequently cast onto the floor whenever they were finished with each dish.

Again, as a concession to the more refined Norman tastes, her table boasted every delicacy imaginable, able to tempt even the most discerning palates even if her sept were usually content with unsauced dishes.

The long benches, tables, and high backed chairs on the dais were all finely carved and heavily ornamented, and had been made by her eldest brother Maolcholuim, a skilled carpenter as well as warrior, several years before. She noted with pride that several of the Norman lords sitting at the high table ran their hands over the patterns of leaves and flowers with obvious admiration.

She was right to feel pleased with herself, her aunt acknowledged, watching her graceful niece move about the room. Dairinn had done well with her home in recent years, ever since she had grown old enough to take her mother’s place in the O’Ciardha household. Her mother had died over ten years before, of a strange wasting disease. For a time Rathkeel had fallen to wrack and ruin, as her father, completely grief-stricken, had lost all interest in worldly affairs.

But Dairinn and her two elder brothers had been made of sterner stuff, Aunt Mebh recalled fondly. The stranger behind the pillar listened to her thoughts intently, trying to discover exactly who Dairinn Ni Ciardha was.

It wasn’t long before they had put their young heads together and developed plans for restoring their family’s fortunes. Maolcholuim and Suibhne had banded together with their clever sister, who had helped organize the food, weapons and stores, the agricultural activity on the estate, and even the hunting and fishing.

As she had grown older, Dairinn had even participated in the clan’s cattle raids and battles. Her father Peadar had always been overly-indulgent with the only daughter he had ever had in his house full of sons, five strong boys who had been the pride of his heart. Seeing her iron-willed determination, in the end he had allowed her to drill, train, and campaign alongside her brothers, and the six of them, along with their three closest cousins, had formed the backbone of the O’Ciardhas.

The stranger listened to Aunt Mebh’s reflections on her stunning niece, and nodded, pleased. He had no doubts now. Dairinn Ni Ciardha had to be the one who had been foretold.

Aunt Mebh watched her brother as he led toast after toast to Dairinn’s happiness. Peadar’s fondness for his only daughter had grown even more obvious over the years as one by one, his sons had all died of accident or illness.

Mebh reflected with a sigh that Dairinn was now the only child left to her brother since the death of his eldest son Maolcholuim in a riding accident the year before.

Peadar had, however, recently adopted Fergus, Conn, and Bearach, the youngest of the three, after the death of his sister Mebh’s husband Rian. But despite these new additions to the household, Peadar had given the beautiful Dairinn pride of place as chatelaine of his castle, even above Mebh herself.

He had also allowed her to decline the many marriage proposals she had received in order to allow her to cling to her childhood, her freedom, a little while longer.

Mebh didn’t resent the younger woman’s supremacy. She only envied her the freedom to order her own life as she saw fit. Too often the Fates decreed a different path from the one an individual wished to choose, as Mebh herself had discovered many years ago.

Perhaps the Fates were controlling her destiny again now, Mebh wondered uneasily. The O’Ciardhas had noted in recent months with increasing alarm that the Norman invaders who had arrived in Ireland that spring were becoming more and more greedy for prime farmland throughout Leinster, and more and more ambitious for power within the centuries-old Irish political system.

Because of Peadar’s unease, and some slight murmurings of discontent within his own clan, he had decided that the time had come for his sept to number themselves amongst the Normans’ allies, lest they run the risk of incurring their wrath.

The O’Ciardha had been a peaceful clan, strong, well-equipped, prepared to defend itself if the need arose, but never indulging in internecine warfare simply for the sake of the succession. Many young men from other clans had blinded, injured or killed one another for the chance to become tanaist of their sept one day, even to the point of maiming or murdering nearly everyone eligible the succession.

Not so with Dairinn’s family. As a lesser southerly branch of the powerful Ui Neill dynasty, they had a modicum of protection from their northern cousins, and thus many powerful allies. Peadar was known to be a fair and trustworthy man. Many were willing to entrust their sons to him for fosterage, an essential component in training the young men to be warriors and forging powerful alliances.

Peadar’s five sons had been strong warriors, but not given to unnecessary displays of power. They had defended their territory and cattle as required, and honored their alliances, but never had never gone on the offensive themselves.

Above all, Mebh acknowledged without a trace of rancor, the O’Ciardha clan had remained powerful because of its determination to remain united, a stance which Dairinn in particular, with her enormous strength of character and quick-witted resourcefulness, had persuaded all of the men in the family to agree to.

Maolcholuim, as Peadar’s eldest son, had had the greatest claim to become tanaist of the sept once Peadar eventually died. Dairinn and her younger brothers and cousins had all sworn loyalty to Maolcholuim as the acknowledged leader. Though he had been a bright young man and brilliant fighter, it had been his sister who had won them all around to the idea.

Over the years she had earned her clan’s loyalty through her intelligence and bravery, for in addition to being a superb homemaker and estate steward for her father, she could fight, hunt, and even kill as skilfully as any man in the great hall the whenever the need arose.

Senan knew all he needed to know from the connection he had forged with Aunt Mebh’s mind. He began to inch forward slowly. He had much to do, and little time. He could sense the political intrigue all around Dairinn, and now a palpable evil emanating from behind another pillar which was so terrifying that he felt his knees go weak.

It vanished as soon as he sensed it, leaving him quivering and breathless. Had it been real? Or just him sensing the Normans’ evil intentions to harm these innocent, unsuspecting people as soon as the supposed marriage alliance was complete?

Fergus, Mebh’s eldest son, nudged his mother gently in the side, disturbing her pensive mood.

“Conn’s doing it again!” he whispered.

The stranger saw Dairinn blush now as her cousin recounted her deeds of daring as a young woman when she had campaigned side by side with her clan against a mighty invasion force from Denmark.

She scolded, “Conn, please, leave some work for the bards to do tonight! Regaling the company with these old tales is only stealing their thunder, and putting everyone to sleep.”

“I tell you, she fought like a hundred men with the Vikings that day,” Conn continued to boast to all who would listen. “She killed more than Maolcholuim and Suibhne put together. Many’s the head we brought back, though the little miss here doesn’t like peile.”

Dairinn rolled her eyes heavenward, and remarked to Fergus, “It’s good thing the Normans can’t understand a word of what Conn’s saying. They already look disapprovingly enough at me without him giving them any further cause to do so.”

“There is nothing to disapprove.” Fergus grinned up at her, his green eyes glowing. “You’re lovely beyond measure. If they don’t admire you, a thaisce, they’re damned fools who don’t know what a real woman is!”

“They might have some serious doubts about my gender if Conn doesn’t stop boasting!”

“Impossible,” he growled, pulling her to him for an affectionate kiss.

She slapped Fergus playfully as he tickled her waist, and smiled down at her aunt, who sipped her wine and said nothing.

Dairinn wondered from her aunt’s expression if Mebh were disappointed that she and Fergus had never married. They were great friends, and she was terribly fond of him. But the one or two times they had ever flirted with the idea of engaging in a romance with one another, Dairinn had resisted. They were too similar. They could never be happy with one another in that way, she was sure.

Aunt Mebh looked up at her candidly then, her odd dark eyes shimmering in the candle light. “Fergus is right, child. There’s no point in marrying a man who won’t appreciate you.”

Fergus tickled her again, and with a last kiss went over to thump his brother on the back. “If you don’t stop rattling on, Conn, I shall get Tadhg the bard to make up a satire about your dull story-telling!”

The table went silent then, for here was a serious threat indeed. Tadhg was known to have the sharpest tongue in Leinster. One of his scurrilous verses was enough to make most people’s hair turn gray.

Dairinn winked at her handsome young cousin to show her gratitude for his support, and sat by her aunt, who looked downcast.

“Aunt Mebh, both you and I know the main thing any man appreciates is my dowry. And the powerful allies I bring with me as my marriage portion. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed with my choice, but it’s Father’s dearest wish that we make peace here in Leinster. To try to create a bridge between the Normans and the clans hereabouts.

“Perhaps there is someone out there in the wide world who might love me for myself alone. But I’m old enough to be married now. Just think how much this will help our sept. If the boys were all still alive, it would be different. We wouldn’t have to fear anyone, least of all the Normans, or try to consolidate our position in this region. But my brothers are gone now, God rest them, and so it’s just the four of us, with me as heir.”

Aunt Mebh nodded and sighed.

“All of you here at Rathkeel rely upon me to look after things. I know you do your best to help, Aunt, truly. But there are certain things you can’t help with. Besides, at your age you should be looking after yourself, not a whole passel of wild men.” She grinned, and ruffled Conn’s hair as he came over to give her a big bear hug and challenge her to an arm wrestle.

“Not now, Conn,” she said in exasperation. “The guests!”

“I forgot. Sorry,” Conn apologized. The huge bear of a man placed a smacking kiss on her lips, and shuffled away to search for some ale.

Dairinn turned back to Aunt Mebh. “I can see you’re unhappy about this match. He is no doubt a fortune-hunter, as all Normans are. But since Hugo is willing to live here at Rathkeel always, I consider that I’ve made the best bargain possible. Even if he doesn’t care for me truly, I shall be mistress here in my own home, and that is enough.”

Mebh looked at her speculatively for a moment. “Pray God your words come true, my dear. For once you are wed to Hugo du Balleroi, you’ll have no chance to change your mind.”

“This is my home. You’re my family. Rathkeel means everything to me. Why would I ever alter my inclination?” Dairinn laughed with the glib assurance of a young woman who seldom changed her mind about anything.

“You mentioned it just now, Dairinn. True love. For that you should be willing to surrender everything, even that which you hold most dear,” her aunt stated firmly, her dark eyes glittering.

Dairinn was about to laugh again at her aunt’s uncharacteristic sentimentality, when suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. As she stood up from the wooden bench, the stone floor seemed to give way beneath her feet.

The Wizard Woman
Shanna Murchison
ISBN-13: 9781583450185
Fantasy, Paranormal Romance
Setting: Ireland, 1169
Word Count=118,000 words
Rating: Quite sensual

 

Reviews:

Thoroughly fascinating, Four stars

Kathy Boswell, Romantic Times

This thoroughly fascinating Druid fantasy was rich in detail as it told the story of Dairinn and Senan. I found myself reading this book more slowly than I normally read in order to capture every detail. The story opens with Dairinn being betrothed to a Norman in order to try to cultivate peace between her Irish clan and the Normans who have invaded their lands. Little does she know that a stranger has arrived, a Druid, there to fulfill her destiny.

Senan, a Druid Wizard comes to claim Dairinn for his own, but he has no way of knowing how hard a road they both must travel in order to find true love and peace. Dairinn’s heritage is hidden from her for years. When she finds out who and what she is, can she handle it? Can she leave her family behind for a stranger? Can they fight the evil that threatens to overtake their land?

Shanna Murchison created two very strong characters in the hero and heroine. They held onto their love and their beliefs even through the worst adversities, making them a force to be reckoned with.

Five Stars: A stunning talent

Ed, Connecticut, software programmer

This writer has it all, from fantastic heroes and villains, to sparkling love scenes, to vivid action. Add to that the historical element all based on the history of the invasion of Ireland, and this well-researched historical fantasy novel shows that truth has to be stranger than fiction. It is one hell of a great book. Both men and women will LOVE it.

Five Stars: An incredible book

A moving saga of love and loss, and also redemption. The heroine is a memorable one as she is called upon by cosmic forces to rebalance the universe. She and her love must make hard choices in an Ireland being torn apart by foreign invasion. This is one book you will never forget.

Five Stars: Fantastic

A wonderful gripping fantasy romance set in Ireland, with wonderful heroes and villains. This will keep you on the edge of your seat. And just when you think you know what is going to happen, the author manages to surprise you! Terrific! Enjoy it!

The Wizard Woman
Shanna Murchison
ISBN-13: 9781583450185
Fantasy, Paranormal Romance
Setting: Ireland, 1169
Word Count=118,000 words
Rating: Quite sensual

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