Misfortune of Song Read online

  Even a soldier cannot fight love

  In 12th century Ireland, all Maelan wants is to do his duty to his Chief and maintain his family’s good name. However, his granddaughter Orlagh, is hell bent on wreaking havoc, with no care for the consequences.

  When Orlagh falls in love with an itinerant bard, Maelan must rule with an iron fist to keep her from running away. However, her rebellion against his strictures results in disaster and he almost loses her in the same way he lost his beloved wife.

  Maelan must make some difficult decisions and bargains with the Fae to save his granddaughter’s life and future. Can he save her happiness as well?

  MISFORTUNE OF SONG

  Druid’s Brooch Series, #5

  Christy Nicholas

  Published by Tirgearr Publishing

  Author Copyright 2018 Christy Nicholas

  Cover Art: Cora Graphics (www.coragraphics.it)

  Editor: Sharon Pickrel

  Proofreader: Barbara Whary

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you for the purpose of review, then please log into the publisher’s website and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting our author’s hard work.

  This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Publisher’s Note

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Pronunciations and Definitions

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other books by Christy

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Publishers and authors are always happy to exchange their book for an honest review. If you have obtained a copy of this book without purchase or from the publisher or author, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads, as reviews help authors market their work more effectively. Thank you.

  DEDICATION

  To anyone who has had to hurt someone they love in order to save them.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As I continue on my journey into my imagination of twelfth century Ireland (Hibernia), I have many people to thank. The wonderful folks in my authors’ group, who continue to offer valuable feedback and encouragement, of course, as well as my beta readers. Siobhán of Bitesize Irish has been wonderful in her help with proper Irish pronunciations for my increasing list of Irish Gaelic words. I also thank Walker Metalsmiths of New York for the use of their wonderful brooch for inspiration for the cover art.

  PRONUNCIATIONS AND DEFINITIONS

  Places

  An Mhumhain–Munster /On Vu-ven/

  Boireann–The Burren /Bwer-in/

  Ceann-Coradh–Kincora /Kyon-Kur-ah/

  An Cheathrú Mhór–Carrowmore /On Khah-roo Wohr/

  Corcaigh–Cork /Kur-kee/

  Dubhlinn–Dublin /Div-lin/

  Dún na nGall–Donegal /Doon nah nawl/

  Eas-Ruaidh–Assaroe Falls /Ass-Roo-ah/

  Fánóir–Fanore /Faw No-ir/

  Forghas /On Fur-ghuss/

  Gaillimh–Galway /Gol-yiv/

  Grianán Aileach–a hillfort near Inishowen in Donegal /Green-awn Al-yukh/

  Inis Eoghain - Inishowen /Inish Oh-en/

  Luimneach–Limerick /Lim-nukh/

  Sionann–Shannon /Shun-an/

  Sligeach - Sligo /Shlig-ukh/

  Uachtar Ard–Oughterard /Ookh-tur Awrd/

  Ulaidh–Ulaidh /Ul-ah/

  People

  Adhna /Eye-na/

  Aislinge Meic Con Glinne /Ash-ling-eh Mik Kun Glin-eh/

  Alatha /Al-aw-ha/

  Ammatán /Om-ah-tawn/

  Caiside mac Eógan /Kass-ih-jeh Mok Owan/

  Conall Cearnach /Kun-ol Kar-nukh/

  Diarmait Ua Briain /Jeer-met Oo-a Bree-in/

  Domnall /Doh-nal/

  Eógan mac Fionn /Owen Mok Fyun/

  Eolande /Ay-oh-lawn-day/

  Ériu /Air-oo/

  Étaín /Ay-deen/

  Flidaisínn /Flee-sheen/

  Maelan mac Lorcáin /Mwayl-aewn Mok Lurk-aw-in/

  Mannanan /Mon-ah-nun/

  Murtough Ua Briain /Mur-tah Oo-a Bree-in/

  Orlagh /Oar-lah/

  Sláine /Slawn-yeh/

  Temuirr /Tay-moor/

  Ui Briain /Oo-ee Bree-uhn/

  Ui Conchobair /Oo-ee Kun-ah-koor/

  Utromma /Oo-trow-mah/

  Ui Néill /Oo-ee Nayl/

  Other

  Ard Rí–High King /Awrd Ree/

  Bean sídhe–Banshee /Ban shee/

  Bodhran–Small handheld drum /Bow ran/

  Cailleach-oíche–Night Hag /Kol-yukh-ee-ha/

  Dál gCais–Dalcassians, a Gaelic Irish tribe /Dawl gash/

  Féth Fíada–Magic mist or veil to render invisible /Fey Fee-a/

  Fían–a tribe of professional warriors /Feen/

  Léine–a long belted tunic /Lay-na/

  Lughnasa–First harvest festival /Loo-na-sa/

  Mo chuisle–my pulse /Muh khwish-leh/

  Tír na nÓg–the land of the ever-living /Cheer na Nohg/

  Túath–Medieval extended household /Too-ah/

  MISFORTUNE OF SONG

  Druid’s Brooch Series, #5

  Christy Nicholas

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  1114 AD Ceann-Coradh, near Cill Dalua, Hibernia

  “I cannot do what you ask, my chief.” Maelan kept his back stiff and his gaze forward. He couldn't bring himself to look Diarmait Ua Briain in the eye, not after the command he’d just been given. Not only did it leave a bitter taste in Maelan’s mouth, but such an act would break his code of honor as a Christian.

  The chieftain stopped mid-stride. “What did you say, Maelan?”

  Concentrating on the wall tapestry in the large royal chamber, Maelan remained still. “I said I cannot kill Murtough Ua Briain.”

  Diarmait growled and spun, his thin frame hidden by the enormous multi-colored cloak he loved wearing. His face darkened, and he picked up a metal platter. The remains of his meal dropped to the floor as he flung the platter against the wooden walls. The harsh clang made Maelan flinch, and he did not flinch easily.

  He stepped so close to Maelan their noses almost touched. Maelan could smell mead and onions on his breath. “How many winters have you been a warrior, Maelan?”

  “Almost fifty winters, my chief.”

  Diarmait cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “In fifty winters’ time, you never killed anyone?”

  “Of course. A warrior kills many enemies, my chief.”

  “Yet you refuse to kill my enemy now.”

  “You haven’t asked me to kill an enemy. You’ve asked me to kill your own brother. You do not ask for an honorable killing. You ask for a kin assassination, my chief.”

  Diarmait threw his hands in the air. “Stop saying ‘my chief’ every other word, Maelan! By the power of the sun and the moon, we’ve known each other too long for such formalities. I don’t understand your reluctance. The man is a warrior just as you are. Why would you scruple to kill another warrior?”

  “A warrior in battle is honorable. A helpless kinsman on his sickbed is murder.”

  He spun, pacing several times as he spoke. “You and your stupid Christian morals. Why are you so blind to necessity, Maelan? When he recovers, he’ll take the túath from me
again. You’ll be just as dispossessed as I if that happens.”

  Maelan could think of nothing to say. Either he argued with Diarmait or betrayed his beliefs. He chose neither option.

  Chief Diarmait closed his eyes and let out a weary sigh. “Time was you would do as your chief commanded, Maelan. When did you change?”

  Maelan clenched his teeth against the memory of that battle —a day which still haunted him.

  Diarmait crossed his arms and frowned. “Sometimes I just don’t understand you, Maelan. You are my warchief, my best warrior and one of my oldest friends. You’ve stood by me through war, raids, and celebrations. Your wife, may she rest in the Summer Lands, was my own dear cousin.”

  “That is all true, my chief. Nothing changed.”

  “Yet you won’t kill for me.”

  Maelan swallowed. “I cannot justify such an act to my God. Such an act is dishonorable.”

  “Dishonorable? How in the name of all things holy is killing dishonorable? Battle is an ancient tradition for all Gaels.”

  “Not for Christians, my chief. I mean, Diarmait.”

  Diarmait growled. “Codswallop! A bunch of stammering weaklings. You and my brother both love them for some unknown reason. Go, Maelan. Leave me now. Do send me someone with the skills I need. You must have one warrior in your command unweakened by your Christian morals.”

  “Yes, my… yes, Diarmait.”

  Maelan almost smiled, but restrained himself.

  Once he safely escaped the royal rooms, he breathed a sigh of relief. It didn’t really matter who he sent in his stead. No one else would have his own advantage. Murtough Ua Briain, his own chief’s brother and rival for the Chiefdom of an Mhumhain, would live another day—unless his illness took him.

  Maelan had a good group of warriors under him, with various skills and specialties. Maelan could be an excellent assassin, thanks to his magical talent, but he’d never use his magic for such a task.

  As Diarmait had pointed out, not every Gaelic warrior believed secret killing was dishonest. In Gaelic culture, killing became a logical part of the constant warfare between tribes and clans. Maelan was raised, however, in a strict Christian household. His grandfather had been a priest, and such sins are unforgivable.

  His chief still cleaved onto most of his pagan Gaelic beliefs, though Diarmait certainly gave lip service to the Christian God and their priests. He could hardly do less these days, with the amount of sheer power the Church now held. Many winters ago, perhaps in his great-grandfather’s time, more pagans lived, but they’d been hunted and destroyed with alarming violence. Violence wasn’t common on their own island, but crucifixions, even burnings, were not unheard of in other lands.

  The violence. Despite being a warrior all his life, Maelan detested and regretted unnecessary violence. Some of his memories…

  Maelan found his own room and closed the door, thankful to be out of sight. He removed his simple brat from around his shoulders and sat at the simple wooden desk.

  He had work to do. The supply lists were still unfinished, and he needed to assign mentors to the new trainees. Some of those boys were barely grown. One only counted seven winters. Certainly, training a warrior young helped get them used to the feel of a spear in their hands, but seven?

  Maelan’s own training had officially started at age twelve. He’d had fighter practice since he aged ten winters. He fostered to his mother’s brother, a warrior in Corcaigh, after age ten. He’d been so proud of his wooden practice sword and leather helm. He smiled at the memory, but frowned as he remembered his grandmother. She’d left the winter before his fostering, disappearing in the night. He’d only found her once, many winters later.

  When he turned thirty, she’d sought him out, though he’d believed her long dead. She’d gifted him with a family heirloom, passed down for generations untold. He still held his brooch, a magical artifact which granted him the ability to stay hidden in plain sight.

  He wished she’d had a similar talent. Instead, her talent almost got her killed. Did she still live somewhere? Had she managed to reinvent herself? He hoped so. He suspected, however, after she relinquished the brooch, her talent of eternal youth had faded.

  After swallowing hard and chiding himself for useless nostalgia, Maelan bent to the task of finishing his work for the day.

  * * *

  The savory odor of roasted beef met Maelan at the doorway of the feast hall. He stopped to take an appreciative breath of his favorite meal. The cook at Ceann-Coradh had perfected the slow-roasted spit beef, marinated with some sort of miraculous herbs. He didn’t care if he went to the devil for eating it, the beef tasted so good.

  He took his place about a third of the way down the long wooden table. The head was, of course, reserved for the chief, his family, and his closest advisors. Then came Maelan as his warchief, and then Eógan mac Fionn, his own second and his closest friend.

  The rest of the soldiers, wives, and other craftsmen were arrayed beyond them. In all, about thirty ate at the table this night.

  Raucous laughter from the lower end of the table made him narrow his eyes. If they got too rowdy, Maelan had a duty to discipline them. The noise settled down when one of the younger warriors noticed his glare. He shushed his companions, and they continued in a more subdued volume.

  A murmur rippled through the hall as two young women entered, chattering merrily between themselves. His granddaughter, Orlagh, and her best friend, Eolande.

  His seventeen winters old granddaughter was his pride and joy. She was a sweet young lady, with long, blonde, straight hair and freckles. He did wish she acted more biddable, but she had a proper warrior spirit beneath her short stature. He remained proud of her, despite her constant japes. Orlagh hadn’t caused the murmurs.

  Eolande had white hair. Not white like a very pale blonde, but white as new-fallen snow. She had violet eyes, and her otherworldly coloring always engendered rumors of Fae blood. Maelan decided the rumors were a load of rubbish. He’d known a girl with violet eyes when he was a lad, and she was certainly fully human. Didn’t most elders get white hair? Nothing was unnatural about that. Speculation never seemed to settle, no matter how many winters she lived at Ceann-Coradh. Of course, the fact she kept a raven with white eyes as a pet did nothing to quell such rumors.

  Their giggles were light and twinkling compared to the warrior’s rough laughter. The room hushed as they took their seats, but not for them. The chief came in and stood at the head of the table, surveying his extended family and retainers.

  He nodded to the servants, and they bustled in with huge platters. The first they placed in front of Chief Diarmait, a whole roasted haunch of beef, still sizzling from the spitfire. The aroma as the roast was cut permeated the hall and Maelan had to restrain himself from grabbing his portion out of turn.

  As no guests were present, Chief Diarmait got the choicest portion, the tender, beautifully marbled cut near the ribs. Maelan’s mouth watered as he waited for his serving.

  More servants brought root vegetables, barley bread, cheese, and ale for everyone. Those at the head of the table got wine or mead, as they preferred. Soon, the conversations all stopped as people concentrated on their meal, chattering voices replaced by the smacking of lips and the glugging of drink.

  After sating his hunger on the rare roast beef, Maelan turned to his right. “Eógan, did you get the younglings set up with their training schedule today?”

  Around a mouthful of cheese, Eógan mumbled an affirmative. He then swigged half his ale and smiled. “Aye, and a couple of good lads we have, too. Two are already taking charge of the rest. The ginger one, though–watch out for him. He’s already caught the girls’ attention.”

  “What about that wee one, Séan Óg’s boy?”

  Eógan laughed. “Ah, he was fine. That one carries a fierce anger. You should have seen him attacking the pell. Have you seen the size of his feet? He’ll outgrow them all.”

  Reassured by his second’s assessmen
t of the new fosterlings, Maelan smiled. “Inform me if any problems crop up tomorrow. The first day is always full of eager anticipation, but reality sets in on the second day. Many finally realize they won’t see their parents for moons, so the power plays begin, and the bullying.”

  Eógan narrowed his gaze and pointed to Maelan with a chunk of bread. “Have I ever let you down, Maelan?”

  “In training the boys? Never. However, I do recall a couple of situations I’ve had to extract you from over the winters.”

  Laughing, Eógan dipped the bread into the beef drippings on his plate. “True enough! But it was grand fun, aye? Remember my fat, feisty woman down in Luimneach? The one with the midnight-dark braids. Oh, she was so worth it.”

  Maelan chuckled. That had been quite a night, no doubt. Eógan had wooed the woman for moons. She’d been at least a foot taller than the stocky warrior and several stones heavier. When he finally succeeded in bedding her, they’d practically destroyed the tavern room. Maelan had to pay for damage to chairs, tables, even a cracked hearth stone. What in God’s name had they done to crack a hearth stone? Maelan never asked and always wondered. Eógan had been in no shape to answer any questions at the time. Covered in cuts and bruises, passed out from his exertions, Maelan had to take him home to Ceann-Coradh via boat along the River Sionann.

  Eógan plunked a full mug of small ale in front of him. “Maelan. You’re thinking too hard. Drink more, think less.”

  Maelan sighed and looked into the frothing mug. Eógan’s answer to many issues was drink. Maelan didn’t have his gleeful faith everything would work out, simply because you were drunk.

  With a slap on his back, Eógan growled, “I said drink! The ale won’t get any stronger if you stare at it. It might curdle from your sour visage, but the ale won’t get stronger.”