Age of Druids: Druid's Brooch Series: #9 Read online

  Clíodhna has three children and a missing husband, and now finds herself in the middle of growing quarrels with the new church.

  When she encounters a strange man in the woods near her house, she discovers a kindred soul, someone to teach her to harness her own innate talents and powers.

  At the new church, she develops a friendship with one of the monks, and shares many conversations with him about life, philosophy, and theology. For once, it seems her life is becoming a thing to be savored rather than a thing to simply survive.

  Her new teacher, however, clashes with the ideals of the church. Her relationship with the monk is another source of conflict when a new church leader arrives.

  A few rash decisions means she must now change her own fate. That means choosing between her happiness—perhaps even her life—and her family. It might be better for all involved if she leaves her children with a trusted friend and disappears into another world.

  Can she flee a bad situation, leaving her children to the mercies of fate? Or does she have the power and ability to face the danger herself?

  AGE OF DRUIDS

  Druid’s Brooch Series, #9

  Christy Nicholas

  Published by Tirgearr Publishing

  Author Copyright 2020 Christy Nicholas

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

  Editor: Sharon Pickrel

  Proofreader: Jessica Corra

  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

  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 sending a review to the author or publisher, as reviews help authors market their work more effectively. Thank you.

  DEDICATION

  Sometimes that which we pursue is not what we truly need or want. I dedicate this novel to those who realize their dreams are sometimes unwise and turn instead to nurture their own lives and loves.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I give thanks to my wonderful authors’ group, who give fantastic feedback on my work, and my beta readers such as Ian Morris.

  Siobhan of Bitesize Irish is always helpful with the Irish pronunciations of the native words I use.

  Thanks to Walker Metalsmiths of New York for the use of their wonderful brooch for inspiration for the cover art.

  And with this final book in my Druid’s Brooch series, I thank my husband, Jason, for all his patience and support.

  PRONUNCIATIONS GUIDE

  People

  Adhna — Eye-na

  Aebh — Ayv

  Aileran — AY-leh-ran

  Áine — Awn-ye

  Ammatán — Om-ah-tawn

  Aoibheall — Ee-vul

  Beacáin — bee-KAYan

  Bodach — Bud-ukh

  Brighid — Breed

  Cailleach: The hag goddess — CAY-lukh

  Ceatha — KAY-he

  Cerul — che-RULE

  Clíodhna — KLEE-uh-na

  Éanna — EY-naa

  Eógan — OH-wen

  Fachtna — FAWKT-nah

  Gabha — GAV-uh

  Grian — GREE-ahn

  Grimnaugh — GRIM-naw

  Lugh — Loo

  Macha — MAKH-ah

  Manannán — Ma-na-NAWN

  Maol Odhrán — MAY-ohl O-rawn

  Micoll — MY-coal

  Oisinne — oh-SHEEN

  Tirechan — TEER-i-shan

  Tuireann — TOO-reen

  Wannaig — WAN-ig

  Places

  An tSionainn: The River Shannon — an TAN-een

  Baile Átha Luain: Athlone — BAWL-yuh A-ha LOO-in

  Tír na nÓg: Land of the Ever Young — Cheer nah Nohg

  Other

  Aos Sídhe: The Fair Folk — Ays shee

  Bealteaine: Start of summer months — BYALL-tin-uh

  Druí: A priest or priestess of the old gods — DROO-ee

  Faoladh: a werewolf — FAY-lah

  Fir Bolg: The people who lived in Éire before the Túatha Dé Danaan: People of the Bag — feer bol-ug

  Géis: A curse or requirement — gesh

  Grugach/Grugachann: A household Fae — GROO-gakh/GROO-gah-khan

  Léine/Léinte: A long belted tunic (singular/plural) — Lay-na/Layn-tah

  Túatha Dé Danaan: Fairies or people in Ireland before the Sons of Mil — TOO-a-ha day DAH-nan

  AGE OF DRUIDS

  Druid’s Brooch Series, #9

  Christy Nicholas

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Late winter, 442 CE, Loch Rí, Éire

  Her baby’s screech stabbed through Clíodhna’s skull, making her want to abandon Aileran and escape into blessed silence. She wished to be somewhere in the forest, on a hill, surrounded by buzzing bees and yellow flowers. Perhaps flying over the rolling hills with a flock of starlings.

  Her brief idyll crashed when another scream broke through. She sighed and picked him up, rocking him against her shoulder while stirring the iron pot. Clíodhna cast an eye for her middle child, Donn, who helped a lot, but tended to wander off and get into trouble. She found no sign of him, but someone yelled at the horses outside. He must be doing farm chores.

  Aileran cuddled into her shoulder, let out a wet burp, and promptly fell asleep, a warm weight against her neck. His hand curled around a hank of her black hair, pulling just enough to make her wince. At the same time, his adorable smile invoked her own. Despite her frustration, she loved her baby boy. It had been a dozen winters since her womb had quickened, but she’d been glad of the new child after so long, especially after losing one daughter at birth.

  Clíodhna glanced out the window of the large roundhouse. She glimpsed Donn, unharnessing the plow with practiced hands. Though he counted but fourteen winters, he needed to be the man of the house since his father disappeared.

  The baby fussed again, whimpering in his sleep. She rocked him, still stirring the stew in the pot. They’d only a few meals of dried lamb left from the autumn harvest, but still had plenty of onions and turnips, as well as chives and garlic. At least Oisinne left them a workable farm before he disappeared. She used to sell small wooden carvings she’d made, but who found time for such frivolity now?

  The odor of char caught her attention, and she cursed as she tried to swivel the pot off the fire. She needed to add more water before it scorched. Baby still in hand, she bent to the bucket, trying to lift it without waking the child. She failed.

  His screams shot right through her ears, a physical pain that made her drop the bucket. The water splashed on the flagstone floor.

  “Son of a diseased donkey!”

  “Clíodhna! Such language!”

  She whirled to see Ita, a blonde woman from the village, standing in the doorway, her hand upon her heart.

  “Sorry, Ita. Can you help me for a moment? I need about five extra hands.”

  “I can see that. Here, let me take the wee one.” She reached out to take Aileran, who yanked on C
líodhna’s hair so hard it brought tears to her eyes.

  She tried to be patient with her son. “Let go, Aileran; there’s a good babe.”

  A crash outside made her whimper.

  Ita smiled. “Go. Check on your lad out there. I’ve got Aileran well in hand. Don’t I, wee thing? We’re going to get on just grand.” She touched the baby’s nose, eliciting a giggle from the ungrateful wretch. Clíodhna gave them one last lingering glance before she rushed out to find out what trouble Donn fell into.

  The boy lay half under a bale of hay, struggling to pull his leg out. His face screwed up in frustration.

  Trying to suppress a chuckle, Clíodhna lifted the edge so he could extract himself. “How did you get under there, Donn?”

  He pouted, wiping straw from his léine. “When I brought Tinn into his stall, he reared. I staggered back and hit the pile. The top one fell on me. It didn’t hurt, though!”

  Clíodhna eyed the stack of hay, assessing the sturdiness of the remaining bales while trying to stifle a chuckle. “They look stout enough to me. You must have hit the bale hard.”

  He didn’t answer, but looked at his foot, shuffling it in the dirt. “Yeah, I hit it hard. Tinn reared pretty high.”

  Clíodhna gave him a kind smile. “I suppose a full-grown horse rearing up high can be rather scary, even to a sturdy lad of fourteen winters. I’m glad you were smart enough to back up. A frightened horse can be dangerous.”

  “I know, Ma. Am I in trouble?”

  “Of course not. But you still have chores left. Can you fetch me two more buckets of water?”

  He squinted at her. “Don’t you still have one? I just brought one in before I plowed.”

  “Unfortunately, I dropped that one trying to put more water in the stew. Oh, my stew!”

  She rushed back into the roundhouse but saw that Ita had moved the stew well away from the hearth.

  “Thank you, Ita. I’m sorry to leave you with him so long.”

  The older woman grinned, handing the baby back. “He’s been a lovely lad. I miss my own babies. They’re all grown and starting families of their own now. Hopefully, I’ll have grandchildren soon to play with. Oh, that reminds me, I saw Etromma in the village. She said to tell you she might be later than she expected.”

  Clíodhna frowned. Her eldest daughter spent far too much time with the blacksmith’s boy, Tirechan, for her peace of mind. Etromma counted sixteen winters, a marriageable age, and made her choice clear. However, the blacksmith would never pair his son, full of high status, to Etromma. As the daughter of a single woman with a small farm, they held very little status. A blacksmith stood second only to a Bard or Druí, as he possessed the magic of creating iron. His sons could have their pick of any woman they wanted, but the father would choose the most advantageous mate.

  In the meantime, Etromma would only make a fool of herself hanging around, trying to impress the lad, and possibly get herself with child in the process. None of which would increase their status in the slightest.

  She’d almost forgotten Ita still stood in her house. Her guest stirred the pot idly while Clíodhna lost herself in musings. After clearing her throat, Clíodhna asked, “Did you come over to ask something, Ita, before I so rudely recruited you into an assistant?”

  With a chuckle, Ita glanced up from the stew. “I did, actually. I wondered if you would like to join me for the next meeting with the monks tomorrow morning?”

  “The monks? You mean those strange men up in the glade? Why would I do that?”

  She laughed. “Well, for one, you can bring your children. It might give them something interesting to do other than get in trouble. They also teach classes, skills like beekeeping or baking.”

  Clíodhna wrinkled her nose. “I already know how to bake.”

  “You do, yes. But does Donn? And being part of the community means you might have more help with the children when you need an extra hand.”

  She glanced at the baby, now sleeping in her arms, and Donn, who came in with two buckets sloshing full of water. He grinned at Ita and carried them to the hearth. With a glance at Clíodhna, he poured some into the kettle and swung the iron arm back over the fire.

  Ita glanced at him. “Good lad. You’ll make some woman a grand husband someday.”

  While Clíodhna completely agreed, she resented the other woman saying it before she could. Donn was her child, not Ita’s. Her friend had raised her brood already. Clíodhna chided herself. The woman merely wanted to help. And the gods knew Clíodhna needed help. She hadn’t enjoyed a good night’s rest in moons. Five, to be exact. Ever since Oisinne left.

  For several moons, Clíodhna tried to convince herself his absence wasn’t her fault. They’d had no argument, she knew of no other woman, no long-lost relative came seeking help. He’d simply gone out hunting one day.

  When he didn’t come back the first night, she’d thought little of it. He often stayed out overnight, especially if he found no deer. By the second night, however, she’d grown concerned. By the fourth night, she’d gathered several men from the village and asked them for help. Together, they’d combed the nearby woods, searching for sign of either the hunter or his belongings.

  They found nothing. The best trackers in the village found not one clue. Not even the trace of a footstep in the mud. Clíodhna even lost her last horse to the search, when he got mired in a bog and broke his leg trying to escape. She’d loved riding that horse to escape life when she still could. That time was over now, with three children to care for.

  Speculation to his fate ran rampant through the small community. The most common theory was he’d been taken by the Faeries. Others posited he’d just left to start a new life; he’d fallen into a bog and suffocated; or he’d hidden himself and laughed at them all for their searching. He’d been fond of playing jokes on people, and the latter seemed plausible. However, as the season marched on and no sign of him appeared, a joke appeared less likely.

  Clíodhna muddled on as best she could, vacillating between resentment, freedom, and loneliness.

  At least he’d left her with a full pantry from the summer crop and dried lamb, beef, and fish from his hunting and fishing forays. He’d been a great hunter. His skill with the bow remained unrivaled, and he traded his furs and meat in the market on good days.

  Before he left, he’d taught Etromma to use the bow, and she possessed a great deal of skill. She’d brought down two deer this winter, which helped tremendously. Donn would never be a great hunter, but he adored fishing. Between the two of them, and her own weaving efforts, they survived the winter. However, she’d found it difficult to tend the house and raise the children at the same time. Perhaps being part of this monk community might help.

  She glanced at Ita, still stirring the kettle, waiting for her answer. What could it hurt to see what these monks had to say?

  “Very well, Ita. I’ll come with you tomorrow. When?”

  “Just after dawn.”

  “Dawn? That’s when we milk the cows.”

  “The cows can be milked earlier, can’t they? Just give it a try. There is a Lovefeast afterward.”

  Letting out a deep breath, Clíodhna glanced at her baby, and agreed.

  * * *

  The cows didn’t mind being milked before the dawn. If anything, they remained more placid than usual. As the darkness faded, Clíodhna gathered her three children and trudged to the outskirts of the village.

  Etromma whined. “Ma, where are we going?”

  “I told you, dear one. Ita invited us to the monk’s house. They give some sort of lesson. She thought we would enjoy it.”

  “But it’s so early! Why do we have to wake up extra early?”

  “Because that’s when they do the lesson. If we don’t like it, we can leave.”

  Etromma answered with sullen silence. Donn chucked her on the shoulder and grinned. “Mornings are the best time of the day, sister. Don’t you love watching the sun rise? We always greet the dawn with Ma anyhow.”


  “Yes, but that’s dawn. This is before dawn. It’s unnatural.”

  Clíodhna hid a smile.

  Her roundhouse and farm stood some distance outside the main village, if village was the proper term. A collection of twenty families and a few single craftsmen clustered near a bend in the river. About a dozen more farms like hers circled the village. Past that lay a low, flat hill where the monks built their community. The river which ran through town eventually opened into the wide sea, where Clíodhna had grown up. She missed the salt water and storms across the ocean. Memories of swimming with dolphins and sharks sometimes tickled her dreams.

  Seven monks settled in this area the summer before last. They’d built apiaries, planted gardens, and helped the people in the village with tasks now and then. Clíodhna’s husband attended once or twice but came back grumbling under his breath about dead gods, so he never went back. For Clíodhna to go without his blessing would be rude and unseemly. Besides, she’d never felt a draw before.

  Now, with Ita’s urging, she pulled Etromma, Donn, and little Aileran in a sleepy string along the forest path toward the monk’s place.

  Others met them on the road. A smile, a nod, but not much conversation peppered the pre-dawn light. The sun shot its rays up through pink clouds, but the chill didn’t lessen appreciably. Her toes grew numb from the mid-winter frost, and now wet besides from the dew. This had better be worth the effort.

  At least thirty people gathered at the wattle and daub square structure. Most houses were round, but this one looked sturdy enough. It wore an odd little attachment on the chimney, like someone nailed two straight sticks together, crosswise.

  The interior seemed dark, but it cut the winter wind. A small hearth burned near the front, and two braziers filled with glowing coals stood in both back corners. Near the fire, a small table stood with another pair of crossed wooden sticks. A monk dressed in white robes and a colorful neck scarf stood next to it.