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Prologue ©2017 by Amanda Dykes
The Distant Tide ©2017 by Heather Day Gilbert
A Song in the Night ©2017 by Amanda Dykes
The Forgotten Hope ©2017 by Maureen Lang
A River between Us ©2017 by Jocelyn Green
The Swelling Sea ©2017 by Joanne Bischof
Epilogue ©2017 by Joanne Bischof

Print ISBN 978-1-68322-091-6

eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-093-0
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-68322-092-3

All scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION^®. NIV^®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

Printed in Canada.

Prologue

“You will surely forget your trouble, recalling it only as waters gone by.”
JOB 11:16 NIV

Flames lapped at the monk’s robes. He raced down corridors that crackled with the collision of dampness and heat, dodging fire-lit debris. So this was to be the end, then. The night the stones of Ballyfír Monastery would tell their last tale.

Voices ricocheted. Quick into an alcove he pressed himself, wincing against the sharp, foreign echoes. One man barked out heavy words, only to be cut off by another. How many were there? Five in the cross path, by the sounds of it. Maybe more. Perhaps there was yet hope, if their number was small. Another, more distant voice summoned them away, and they thundered in the direction of the cellarium.

Good, he thought. Let them take the food. If they will but leave the words…

The monk released his breath then pulled in ash-thick air only to sputter it back out in a fit of coughing. Turning, he flung open the latched window and gasped for clean air. He was too far from the round tower where the finished manuscripts were stored, but he might reach the scriptorium before the fire did. The Living Word must endure.

But as he filled his lungs afresh, he saw them: three ships curled against the night in stark silhouette, horrible dragon mouths agape upon each prow. Torchlights running to and fro on board, on the beach, winding their way up the hill to the monastery like one great serpent, ready to swallow them whole.

“Please, Father.” His whispered prayer was raspy. “If we perish, may hope yet live.”

Slipping into the empty corridor, the prayer released a thousand leaden weights that had anchored him: the sight of the abbot moments before, slain in the refectory; the desperation that washed over him at the thought of those confined to the infirmary, unable to escape; and the subsequent realization that none of his brothers could flee—not far enough, on this island. Tonight Ballyfír—the place of truth—would give its life for truth. For hope.

Suddenly the yelling, the crashing debris, the pounding footsteps, and shrieks of a raid faded until all he could hear was his own heartbeat carrying him swiftly to what he sought. In the darkness of the scriptorium he grabbed for something—anything—to protect the words. He laid hold of a vessel, hand-forged by one of the metalworking brothers, its cold bronze inscribed with braided intricacies and a Latin word encircling its neck. He pitched the quills it held and capped it. The bottle was a messenger, now. A guardian.

He gripped it and ran to snatch the parchments from the table. With full arms he lingered but a moment, torn: Should he flee back into the fiery mayhem, where destruction would surely consume the pages? The room seemed smaller and smaller, and so did he, until his eyes fell on the small wooden door in the corner—only waist-high, created to retrieve candles from the cupboard shared with the kitchen. He dashed to it, flung open the door, tossed the cupboard’s contents out, and burrowed through to the other side.

A door scraped open behind him. They’d breached the scriptorium. Pulse rushing in his ears, he scrambled into the kitchen and through its door to the outside, where the night cloaked him long enough to reach the cliff-side tower. Wind lashed his face and plucked the parchment leaves from his arms until he held fast to what remained: one solitary sheet in a swirling dance of wind-borne pages. Despair threatened to cripple him, but truth was truth whether one page or fifty. The tower door creaked open to his push, and he took the steps up, up, up two at a time until he burst into the tower chamber—home to the perpetual flame that guided weary visitors to them. The monk shivered, realizing it was the work of his own hand that had guided the Vikings here—for he’d tended the flame just hours ago. Was it such a short time? It seemed an eternity, and now he stood on the brink of just that.

With a mighty heave, he pushed open the window latch overlooking the surf. Time stood still as he rolled the solitary parchment up, glimpsing its ornately illuminated words as he did. He slipped the scroll inside the bottle. This, then, would be their legacy to the world. He would set it free to be carried somewhere, to safety if it pleased God.

Windows in every direction, he turned to take in the sight of his earthly home one last time, clutching the vessel to his chest.

Behind him, he glimpsed the far end of the monastery, where the open-air cloister walled in a handful of candles flickering amid the firestorm encroaching around them. Those who still lived must have gathered there. He could hear their harmonies rising on the wind, a haunting and sweeping steadiness carried with each interlaced note, wrapping him with the peace of his God. Peace that made no sense. Peace that could only be from its very Author.

And before him, the midnight sea waited to swallow the precious words. Through cracked lips, the monk prayed the waves would not bury them, but carry them until they could speak life into another soul.

He lifted the candle and dripped its wax around the bottle’s mouth to seal it before securing the lid. By the light of the single flame, he read the word etched upon the bronze with such care: SPERO.

He stretched his arm out through the window and, gathering every bit of strength left within him, hurled it outward. It arced, briefly catching the moonlight, then dropped into the dark water below.

The monk dropped to his knees, hands clasped, and joined his voice with his brothers in a song of life, even as Viking shouts overpowered them.

The stones of Ballyfír told their last tale that night…but it was just the beginning.

The Distant Tide

Chapter One

Swirling mountain breezes billowed through Britta’s narrow castle window, carrying with them the unmistakable tang of a storm. The sunshine of the morning had given way to glowering clouds this evening. Springtime in Ireland could be fickle.

She swiped at another errant tear. Refocusing on her favorite book, her finger traced the Latin words on the ancient vellum page.

A sharp rap sounded, and her nursemaid, Florie, entered her room in her usual way, without waiting for permission. She bustled toward Britta’s chair, her brass-blond hair escaping her kerchief. Her round face was flushed from walking up the tight circular stairs.

“I’ve been shoutin’ for you, Princess. There’s no one to come and fetch you, since your father took my servants with him on his journey to see the high king. It’s time for our evening meal.”

Florie was bolder than any other servant in the castle, but for good reason. After Britta’s mother had died young from the fever, Florie had stepped in to care for the toddler princess. Britta couldn’t recall one day when her loyal Florie hadn’t come rushing when she needed her.

The woman leaned closer, the smell of cooked meat wafting from her clothing. She cupped Britta’s quivering chin with her rough hand then pushed black strands of hair off Britta’s face. “You’ve been crying. What worries could be weighing on you, safe and healthy as you are?”

That was just the problem. She was perfectly safe here in the castle—so comfortable, she never had to leave this place. And the largest part of her didn’t want to leave. Generations ago, the O’Shea family had settled in this lush pocket of Ireland. This beloved castle and land held her close, as tightly as if she were shackled.

She tried to explain. “You know I’ve always wanted to share my faith with those who have never heard of Christ, and even to those who still hold to druidry.”

Florie nodded, thoughtful. A smile broke across her face. “Perhaps your father will make your dream possible with this journey. You are of marriageable age now, and I have heard the high king has four handsome sons—”

Britta gasped at the suggestion. Surely her father had traveled to discuss kingdom business with the high king, as he did every year. “I can’t leave you, Florie. Nor could I leave Father, although he might not miss the opinions I so freely offer him.”

“True, I shouldn’t like to see you leave, Princess. I doubt your father would, either.” Florie’s light eyes crinkled. “Perhaps God has another suitor for you, closer to home.”

Britta sighed. She didn’t want to think about suitors yet. She wanted to understand how to use her talents for God—whatever those talents were. She was a proficient reader. She also enjoyed talking to Father about decisions for the kingdom, but every time she shared her thoughts, it was as though she was talking into the wind. Father listened to his right-hand man, Ronan. Not to her.

The psalmist said she should ask for the desires of her heart, but the two strongest desires were irreconcilable. There was no way to spread the Word without leaving the kingdom she cared so deeply about.

Florie patted her hand. “Come on down to eat. You’ll feel better with something in your stomach, and then I can prepare a bath for you.” She rustled down the stairs without waiting for Britta’s response.

Not even vaguely mollified, Britta glanced out the window. The low gray clouds obscured her view of the nearby mountain. Because its crowning rock formation was shaped like a crow’s beak, many viewed the monument as an annoyance, an obstruction to the clean line of rolling green hills that swept to the ocean. But to her, it felt like a protective ally, solid and reliable. Even though it was simply called Crow Mountain, she liked to imagine more poetic names for it, like Eagle Aerie or Piney Bluff.

When Britta reluctantly trailed downstairs, she caught Ronan and Florie attempting to move the tabletop onto the trestle in the great hall. To save space, the table was always taken apart after meals and moved into a corner.

The tabletop was a dense plank of cherrywood, and it would be impossible for two people to manage it, even given Ronan’s considerable strength. The guards her father had left behind were already camped at their posts for the evening.

“Let me help.” She grabbed a beveled corner, ignoring their black looks. They didn’t want the princess to sully her hands with menial labor. But she was the princess, wasn’t she? Even though Ronan had been left in charge, she could still do as she pleased.

After considerable effort, they successfully maneuvered the tabletop into position. Cringing to think of repeating the task before each meal, Britta declared, “We will leave the tabletop where it is for the duration of my father’s absence.”

Florie murmured her approval of this plan then scurried off to the kitchen to retrieve the food.

Ronan, too, nodded in agreement. He removed his mace from his belt and propped it against the wall, near his shield and sword.

As always, Britta felt a wave of thanks that her father had left his best warrior behind to protect her. Ronan’s family had lived near the castle all her life, and he had battled alongside her father many times. His loyalty was unquestionable.

Glancing at his mace, a shudder passed from head to toe as she imagined the damage the heavy spiked weapon could inflict. A nervous giggle escaped as she tried to picture such a gentle-spirited man wielding such a deadly weapon, although his build was undeniably powerful and she knew he would not hesitate to protect her life with his own.

Before she could explain, Florie emerged with a large pot of onion soup. She served it up, accompanied by a hunk of white cheese and slightly scorched oatcakes. Finally, she took her seat, waiting for a look from Britta.

Nodding, Britta sipped her soup, the cue that others could eat. She took an oatcake from the pewter dish then cast a furtive look down the table.

Florie started to wipe her mouth on her sleeve then instead used her linen napkin. “Pray tell, what d’you need, Princess?”

“Have you any of the bog butter? I find it gives my oatcakes incomparable flavor.”

“I surely do, and I don’t know how I forgot to set it out.” Florie hastened into the larder, returning with a greeny-black butter ball.

“Thank you. I know Father says it’s uncouth, but I’ve found nothing matches its taste.”

As she finished slathering a thick layer of butter on the oatcake, Ronan spoke. “I shall be riding over to Brennan’s castle to trade horses in the morning. Would you care to accompany me?”

It seemed a careless question, a discussion to pass the time, until Britta raised her eyes and met Ronan’s dark ones. His completely unguarded gaze struck her like the lightning that had finally loosed outside.

She took in his intense look, his half-quirked smile. He was so expectant, so…fixed on what she would answer. Realization dawned. Ronan found her desirable. Had her giggling led him to think she was admiring him?

An embarrassed flush covered her cheeks. She tried to invent an excuse. “My stomach…perhaps I need to…” Unable to continue, she stood and rushed from the great hall. She heard Ronan shove his chair back to stand, and Florie’s anxious voice trailed after her, but she could not stop.

Bolting into her room, she threw herself on her bed, thoughts fluttering about like doves’ wings.

How long had Ronan found her attractive? For so many years, they had wandered the land together, discussing everything from hawks to laws to books. Had the storm-charged air, coupled with her father’s absence, released his hidden feelings?

A sudden thought wormed its way to the forefront. What if this unexpected option was the simple solution to her future, a way to ensure that she could stay in her castle for life? Surely her father would be pleased if she married his right-hand man—the one he would doubtless leave his castle to, since he had no male heirs.

This time, no books could assuage the pounding of her heart. Outside, thunder pounded and rain swept across the moors, spraying mist into her open windows. She jumped from her bed, slamming the shutters together and drawing the iron bar across them for good measure. She wished she could lock her thoughts away so easily, but it was impossible now that Ronan’s face had betrayed his true feelings. Was this an answer to her prayers?

This would be a surprise attack. Ari Thorvaldsson cast a lingering glance at his family’s chain-mail shirt, which he would leave behind to enable more stealth. His closest friend, Sigfrid, gave him a meaningful stare with his one functioning eye.

What sort of question was that? The entire crew understood his motivation to avenge his brother’s blood, spilled in this deceptively green place—Ireland, some called it. The clan responsible for Egil’s death must feel the wrath of the Northmen, as had so many others on this fair isle.

Feeling weighted by the heavy, humid air, Ari chose his weapon carefully and did not answer. He was most comfortable with his sword, its name carved in the blade: Peacebreaker. Surely it was an apt name, since peace had been stolen from him with Egil’s untimely death. His brother had only been sixteen when he fell in a raid on this very castle.

A sudden twinge of doubt reared its head. He had only been ten himself when his brother was slain. His father forced him to stay with his mother on the longship, waiting for the outcome of the struggle. Although he could barely remember the castle his family had raided, he could still close his eyes and smell the pungent blood that had spread across Egil’s chest that day.

His eyes fixed on the odd mountain backing this castle, its point similar to the beak of one of Odin’s ravens. Strange that he could not recall it from his youth.

Sigfrid had not been with his family during that raid, so he could not confirm Ari’s memory. But he had followed the course his father had mentioned, and the lines of the castle looked so familiar. This was the one.

Blond strands of hair escaped their leather binding as Ari nodded forcefully. “Of course we must attack. We did not sail here to trade or explore. We came for vengeance.”

Thunder boomed, and he sheathed Peacebreaker, taking his shorter knife in hand. This sharp angled seax would serve him well in close quarters. He hoped to gain access to the castle grounds before anyone could send up an alarm.

The men had set up camp last night and would soon lose the benefit of surprise. Ari knew they were still exhausted from the long voyage to this Irish inlet. He had to move now that twilight was falling.

He gave a nod to his men. No words were necessary. If they heard his battle cry, no force on earth could stop them, no matter how exhausted they were. Like a wave of heat and hatred, Vikings would sweep the offensive castle clean.

The rain moved in heavy sheets, forming deep puddles and loosening Ari’s footing. Creeping cautiously among the wet tangle of berry vines inside the walled garden, he hoped the tightly stitched seams of his leather boots would keep his feet dry. There was nothing he hated more than cold, soaked feet. At home, when he checked traps in the deep snows, there had been several times he’d feared frostbite would take his toes.

He glanced back at the circuitous route he’d taken to creep up to the rear of the castle. Clambering the stone wall hadn’t been easy in the near dark, but it was surprisingly low. Perhaps the Irish were prepared for shorter invaders, or perhaps they anticipated attacks only on the castle gate in the front. He had spied but a single guard stationed there.

It was possible that he had timed his attack well, when the castle wasn’t fully manned. And the crashing storm had provided effortless concealment. It was a sign: the gods smiled upon this raid.

He clenched his jaw. Who was he fooling? The gods hadn’t protected his brother. They hadn’t given him any happiness in the years he had tried to please his father, stepping into the position of heir. They had never even brought him a woman interesting enough to marry.

He fingered the ancient bronze bottle he kept belted inside his tunic. It was unwieldy, but it was his heritage, and he didn’t want to die without it. It was a trophy from his ancestor, who had bravely sailed west, to this very country, and plundered the holy men who lived here. This bottle and its story had passed to each Thorvaldsson heir. Ari stomached the thought that Egil should have inherited it and pushed on.

Candlelight flickered in the window then disappeared. This was his chance. He gripped his seax, ready to slash at anyone inside. For Egil, he told himself. For Egil he would bring this castle to its knees.

Chapter Two

Spinning her mother’s amber ring on her finger, Britta closed her eyes, picturing Ronan’s intense gaze and how his sleek dark hair matched his neatly trimmed beard. Why had she never thought of him as a suitor? He was surely handsome, turning women’s heads wherever he went.

Maybe it was because he talked to her as a friend—almost as one of the men. When he spoke with her father about taking animals to trade or building onto the castle, he had a way of pulling her into the conversation. Ronan took her opinions seriously; she was sure of that.

Florie rapped and opened the door, once again interrupting her musings. She stood just inside the room, awkwardly shifting on her feet. “Apologies if the oatcakes did not please.”

Britta walked to her side, pulling her into a hug. She could never be angry with such a loyal friend.

“The oatcakes were tasty. Perhaps I used too much butter. My stomach has settled considerably.”

The nursemaid’s freckled cheeks flooded with sudden color. “Well, now. I am not certain what you mean.”

Florie hedged. “To be sure, he’s never said a peep to me along those lines.” She shot her a shrewd look. “But I’ve noticed he lets you win at the table games, which is contrary to his competitive nature. He also dashes outside the moment you announce you’re taking a walk. And you remember the spring festival? There were so many eligible clansmen there, practically swarmin’ around you. Ronan stayed right by your side, do you recall?”

She did. She had thought nothing of it at the time, because Ronan knew she was uncomfortable in large crowds and she’d assumed he was trying to set her at ease. Yet the way Florie described it, he had been protecting her from the advances of other men.

Abruptly, Florie moved toward the clattering shutters, giving a futile tug at the iron bar, which was already secure. “Listen to that driving rain! I’d better feed the guards now. They’ll be soaked to the bone.” She hurried from the room.

Florie’s observations and her nervous behavior confirmed Britta’s suspicions. Ronan did care for her. And what was wrong with that? He could read Latin. He loved God, as she did. He was well regarded by her father. Indeed, life with Ronan would be comfortable. But was it a comfortable life that God had called her to?

Stooping, Ari silently rushed the side entry door. The dimming light of an oil lamp on the scullery wall indicated that someone had been here recently. He crept forward, thankful he hadn’t worn the clinking chain mail.

A sense of echoing spaciousness met him as he passed through the next door. Embers died in a square hearth by the wall, casting long shadows. This must be the great hall. But where were the residents?

He sensed a movement to his right, but before he could turn to see if someone was there, a dull thud slammed into his stomach. A muffled cry jolted from his lips. Furious, Ari stabbed into the dark, in the direction of the attacker. Another blow fell, this time crushing his foot. Even as he tried to plunge farther, hot pain stabbed at his toes, driving him to the stone floor.

Not far away, a woman gave a horrified shout, filling the vaulted space. Ari tried to drag himself back to the doorway, but his long, large limbs would not respond. It was as if his crushed foot pinned his entire body to the ground.

Candles and lights surged toward him. He could make out the sturdy form of the woman who had screamed. She babbled in her native tongue, waving her hands like birds’ wings. Three men drew closer, their lights forming a circle around him. A dark-haired man stooped to retrieve an object from the floor. Ari felt sick when he recognized the bronze spikes attached to a thick stick. He had been attacked with a mace. It was a wonder he had survived.

The man seemed to reprimand the older woman, who continued gesturing to the mace. She must have been the one who had flailed it at Ari, with all the ineptitude of a child wielding his first wooden sword. The bronze head of the mace was too heavy for her to handle, and she must have dropped it right on his foot. He realized the family bottle, tucked in his tunic, had deflected her first ill-placed blow to his chest. Otherwise his insides would have been mangled.

The dark-haired man was in charge, and he seemed to be pondering how to dispose of Ari in the most efficient manner. But the man’s attentions were diverted when a single flickering candle moved down the stairs.

The golden light barely outlined a distinctly female form. As the woman approached, Ari sensed the power shifting from the dark-haired man to her. The circle of onlookers opened and she stepped forward, her black eyebrows raised in concern.

Slowly, she knelt by his side. Her feet crushed the lavender and rosemary strewn on the floor, releasing their scent afresh. The dark-haired man took her by the elbow and pulled her back to a standing position.

The older woman launched into her narrative again, only this time, she spoke slowly enough that Ari understood some of the words. His father owned Irish slaves, and he had listened closely and learned their language so he could converse with them. The woman seemed to be repeating the words Northman and giant. He grinned.

At this, the young woman with the tumbling black hair leaned in, holding the candle over Ari’s chest. A hot drop of wax spattered onto his tunic, but he did not flinch, even as it burned his stomach.

As pain seared through his foot again, Ari curled up tighter, trying to relieve the pressure. He inwardly cursed himself for being reduced to such a position. Why didn’t the man just run him through with his sword? Perhaps these Irish were torturers.

When he opened his eyes, a milk-white face hovered close. Fjord-blue eyes met his.

Britta could not tear her eyes from the Northman. Even curled into a ball, it took all three guards and Ronan to move him to a pallet in her father’s chamber upstairs. She had never seen a man so tall and large, saving perhaps Crim, son of the swineherd. And Crim was as filthy as his swine most of the time.

It was puzzling: She had been told that the Vikings were dirty, crawling with bugs and reeking like the corpses of their victims. This man’s clothing was not unkempt, and his skin and hair were not foul. Only the faint scent of smoke clung to him.

The hulking blond man had remained mostly quiet until one of the guard’s hands accidentally slipped from his shin to his bloody foot. He unleashed a roar that nearly made the guards drop him, and she could not restrain her gasp.

Ronan’s eyes were steely as he deposited the Viking, none too gently, on the pallet. He had not approved of her suggestion to rehabilitate the man before her father returned to execute judgment. She had to admit, Ronan’s idea of a swift death might be the better plan. The Viking’s eyes flashed with unconcealed hatred, and she knew he brought an unprecedented threat to their peaceful inlet.

Yet when his pale, blue-silver eyes paused on hers, his candid gaze spoke louder than words. He longed for certainty, as she did. Perhaps even some kind of redemption. This man had a soul, no matter how brutal his culture was.

Thankfully, Florie knew much about healing, not only because she had nursed many injured clansmen over the years, but because her own husband was an invalid. She would do as Britta asked, despite her fear of the Viking.

Britta grimaced, imagining Florie swinging Ronan’s mace blindly in the dark. How had she managed to maim the intruder enough to halt his attack? God must have guided her hands.

The guards nodded at Britta as they took their leave. Ronan walked toward her, placing a light hand on her shoulder and fixing his eyes on hers. She couldn’t be sure if they blazed with desire or fierce protectiveness.

“Yes. Father will want to know if there are more Vikings coming to our shores. Perhaps we can find a way to communicate with him.”

After considering, Ronan finally gave a half nod, as if this were a sound reason. “A guard will stand at his door for the duration of his stay.”

She knew this would leave them short a guard at the castle gate. She summoned false courage. “I have my own knife, and so does Florie. We will require no extra protection.”

Ronan laughed softly. “After seeing how Florie handled my mace, I shudder to think what she would do with a knife. Clancy will be posted outside his door.”

The Viking groaned, his body curled toward the wall. Florie would soon arrive with the herbs and cloths to wrap his foot. Perhaps they could offer him warm broth, if he understood they meant well.

Chapter Three

It was only a matter of time before his men would come looking. Ari could not decide which would be better: if his crew stormed the castle or if Sigfrid came alone. If they attacked the castle, his mission would be fulfilled because these murdering Irishmen would be dead.

But his thoughts lurched unwillingly to the beautiful goddess who had devoted herself to his care. The raven-haired, plush-lipped maiden had not ceased trying to coax words from him. Did she suspect how well he understood her language? He had determined to feign ignorance, to be the heathen wild man they seemed to think him. He would not become attached in any way to the family who killed Egil.

Yet the young woman—Britta is what they called her—would sit and read aloud to him after the nursemaid changed the herbal wraps on his foot. He supposed she was trying to distract him from his continued pain.

Three days had passed, and his swollen foot had shifted from a deep red to shades of purple and green. The barbed spikes of the mace had left open wounds, but they had begun to heal. The deeper throbbing was what tested his fortitude. But the tea the nursemaid brought regularly—it tasted of willow bark—seemed to ease the pressure.

Ari finally determined that the book Britta read from was her holy book. She treated the thick leather binding, with its numerous vellum pages, with utmost care. He had heard there was a holy book like this not far from his home in Norway, displayed in a newly built Christian church. He had not seen it, because his family would not approve if he went there. They spat upon the ways of Jesus Christ, determined to cling to Odin, Thor, Freyja, and so many others.

Even as Britta devoted hours to his care, the dark-haired man—he seemed to be called Ronan—spent most of his time pinning him with blazing looks. There was no doubt the Irishman wanted him dead. Ari closely watched Ronan’s movements and moods. Perhaps he was the one who had killed his brother. Ari could probably overpower him, once he was able to walk.

Today, Ronan swept into the room, shooing the guard from the door and leaning over Britta as she read. He spoke so rapidly to her, Ari could only decipher one word: Viking. The book she cradled dropped to her lap. She looked at Ari, then back at Ronan.

Ronan’s words tumbled out, unharnessed and unsoftened. “A Viking horde camps by the mouth of our inlet. I have watched them as they sit about, sharpening horrible axes and knives…gleaming swords like the one this fellow had. They are heavily armed, and with so many, they could take this castle in just a few moments. We must either send this man back, kill him, or send an emissary of goodwill.”

The Bible dropped into her lap with a thud, but Britta barely felt it. So many Vikings already encamped. Ronan had been wrong to trust her judgment. She had failed her O’Shea name. And what now? Would her father even be able to return home with those savages encamped so close by?

Yet a glance at the Viking told her he was not as savage as Ronan would have her believe. The man had taken food gratefully from her hand and had allowed Florie to place cool cloths and herbs on his wounds. He had watched as she turned pages, slowly sounding out Latin words as she pointed to the symbols.

But she could understand Ronan’s nervousness, given that the Viking watched his every move like a lion waiting to pounce. His hatred was not veiled as it burned in those sea-colored eyes. Britta suspected that like Ronan, the Viking was a fearsome warrior, and both men sensed a worthy opponent.

Ronan caught the Viking looking at her. “I can make it easy for him,” he whispered. “A knife to his throat as he sleeps and he would not feel pain.”

She drew back. As a warrior, Ronan was surely capable of such violence, but he must see it was morally wrong to kill an unarmed man.

She controlled her voice, lowering it for emphasis. “You have given me three choices—to send him back, to kill him, or to send an emissary. His foot is still weak, and it needs more care than they will be able to provide in a makeshift camp, so he cannot return to them yet. As far as killing him, you know I cannot condone the murder of an injured man who cannot defend himself. So I will choose the last option—sending an emissary to the Vikings.” She paused, forcing herself to say the next words. “And I will be that emissary.”

Ari watched as Ronan’s words grew heated. Although he gestured wildly in the air, it was clear he would not lay a hand on Britta. The two seemed to reach a tentative agreement, and the powerful man strode out the door.

She resumed her position, sitting back in the gold-studded chair by his pallet and picking up her holy book. She chose a page and began to read, but he interrupted her, croaking out a word for the first time in days.

She leaned forward—if Ronan were here, Ari knew he would reprove her for a lack of caution, and Ari wouldn’t blame him. She was altogether too trusting.

He repeated the word, enjoying the way it sounded with his heavy accent. “Bree-ta.”

Her gaze returned to her book, and she seemed lost in her own thoughts. Finally, she pointed to a word next to a hand-drawn picture of a room filled with golden goblets and their holy cross symbol. “Mon-a-ster-i-um,” she said, drawing out each sound.

It was a long word, but perhaps he needed to show her he was grateful for her daily teaching, even though the word she spoke was a reminder of the divide between her people and his. His ancestors had attacked such monasteries to gain the wealth needed to secure their power. Even now, his bronze heirloom bottle was hidden on the floor beneath his pallet, one side of it bearing a slight indentation from the misplaced blow of the mace. He would not leave this place without it.

The smile that spread over Britta’s face replaced all the anxiety that had clouded it when she exchanged words with Ronan. Ari wished he could think of other ways to make her smile.

Leaving Ari in Florie’s capable, but still somewhat-resistant hands, Britta hurried to her room to change out of her ivory dress. She wanted to wear something that would indicate her position as princess.

Although her father’s kingdom was small, it was well respected. It was quite an arduous journey over the hills for Father to discuss matters with the high king, and he only went twice a year. She hated that this was one of those times. She never knew how long such travels might take—once, he had stayed for a full month.

She hoped her actions would please her father, but deep inside, she was fairly certain that he would have agreed with Ronan and disposed of the Viking invader, instead of allowing the injured man to rest on a pallet in his room.

Shaking such doubts from her mind, she donned a tea-colored silk dress with pink roses scattered over the skirt. She placed a narrow, golden crown on her head.

For good measure, she pulled up her skirts and strapped a belt around her waist. Attached to the belt was a long sheath she tied in place on her thigh. From a drawer next to her bed, she retrieved her antler-handled dagger and carefully slid it into the sheath. She hoped the Vikings would not attack her when they realized she carried no sword, but if she were captured, at least she would have a secret weapon.

Yet her best weapon was Ronan, who had refused to let her approach the encampment alone. It was a foolish thing for him to come along, because if they were both killed, the castle would fall. True, he would place one of the guards in charge, but no guard was as vigilant and deadly as Ronan.

As she descended the stairs, she watched to make sure the chunky dagger handle did not protrude beneath her skirts. Realization struck her—how would she communicate with the heathen warriors? Hand gestures could prove deadly if they were misunderstood.

Perhaps Ari could teach her what to say, something that would make her peaceful intent clear.

She turned, hoping she could trust the Northman to share a word that would protect the castle, instead of one that called for an attack.

Chapter Four

Florie met her in the stairwell, her pink face anxious. “M’lady, I was just coming to fetch you. He’s gaining strength in his foot, ’tis certain. He’s trying to hide it from us.”

Britta could not be distracted. Even now, Ronan was probably putting on his mail shirt and gathering his weapons. She patted Florie’s hand. “We will watch him closely. For now, he will go nowhere—our guard Clancy stands just outside the door, and he is wider than the Viking. Do not fret.”

Florie tucked stray wisps of hair beneath her kerchief and straightened her apron. “As you say, m’lady. I’ve dressed his foot, so I’ll be going down to prepare our meal.” She paused, her gaze trailing from Britta’s crown to her nicer clothing. “Have you dressed early for the evening meal?”

“Ronan and I will be traveling today.” Britta did not elaborate. Much as she longed to tell her nursemaid about her dangerous mission so she could savor some motherly sympathy, she would not allow herself to do it. Florie had already risked her own life, attacking the invader in the dark with a mace. What would she do if she realized the princess herself planned to stride into a Viking war camp? Britta could just envision Florie, her stout form clad in a man’s mail shirt, spear in hand, accompanying her charge. She hid a smile. No, her loyal Florie must not know her plan.

As she entered the room, Ari turned his gaze from the window to her. His curious yet appreciative glance swept over her royal clothing and crown. Knowing she had no time to waste, she rifled through her stack of books on the floor, searching for one she had read many times.

When she found the volume she wanted, she searched out a particular picture in it then held it up for Ari to see. His cool eyes moved across the colorful page. It portrayed two armies facing off, but their weapons were no longer drawn. Two men met in the middle, helmets in hand. One carried a stick with a white cloth tied to it. They were obviously seeking a truce.

She pointed to the page where the two men stood. “Peace,” she said, hoping he understood.

He gave her a blank stare. Did the Vikings have no concept of peace? It would certainly fit with the stories she’d been told as a child. The Northmen were villains who slipped onto Irish shores in dragon-head ships, killing to take what they wanted, stealing natives to make them slaves. There was nothing fair about the Viking attacks, no chance to be armed against a force that was nearly invisible until the last minute.

But she must have something to say to the Viking men in the camp. True, she could bring along one of Ari’s things, like his sword, or the bottle he’d tried to hide under his pallet, but then the Vikings might assume he had already died at their hand. If so, surely their wrath would be swift.

With renewed fervor, she tapped at the men in the picture. Then she placed the book on her lap and rammed her fists together to indicate fighting. Finally, she abruptly pulled her hands apart, holding them upright to show that the warring sides were at peace.

“Peace,” she repeated, praying for a word, just one word, that could save her family home.

Recognition sparked in Ari’s face, and his lips slid into a half smile. He spoke carefully: “Greethe.”

She repeated the word several times. When Ari nodded in approval, she placed her book on the floor then stood and hurried from the room.

As the door slammed behind Britta, Ari flexed his foot, pondering. She had been carefully dressed as royalty, and she had asked him how to say grið, the Norse word for peace. Although his thoughts were sluggish from something in the tea, he sat bolt upright as he began to understand.

She was going to see his men. She was going to ask for peace. That was the only explanation for her behavior.

How would Sigfrid react to Britta’s approach? Thankfully, Ari’s second-in-command never acted rashly, but when he determined someone was a threat, he would not hesitate to crush them.

Ari could not let his crew fall upon the helpless, trusting woman who had kept watch over him for days. He felt beneath his pallet, hoping they had not taken the knife he had hidden there, but it was gone. His eyes widened as he realized his heirloom bottle was also missing. The tea must have made him sleep through their pilfering. But why would they take something of no value to them?

He allowed his fear for Britta to flow through him. It washed away thoughts of the bottle and subdued the throbbing, heavy pain in his foot. Determined, he pulled his leg to the side of the pallet, allowing his foot to touch the floor for the first time since his injury. Although he could hardly bend his ankle, he tried to rotate his stiff foot before grabbing the back of the chair and pulling himself to a standing position.

The foot gave way, and he let out a light groan, which he quickly stifled. If he had to crawl to Britta’s side, he would. Sigfrid would see him and stay his attack plans until he gave the word.

Someone shifted outside the door. Doubtless, they had left a guard behind. Where was his sword? Glancing around, he realized that not only had they taken his weapons, they had also taken his boots.

The still-swollen foot needed support. Unwilling to bend to the level of the low pallet, he struggled to take his tunic off then ripped into the bottom of the linen with his teeth. He managed to tear off a strip of cloth and wrap it around his foot. Each move was agonizing, but he could not give up. Wrestling his way back into his tunic, he scowled at the sight of his half-exposed stomach. It still bore a deep bruise from the impact of the mace on the bottle. Sigfrid would fear the worst had happened to him. But there was no time to search for another tunic.

His only advantage over the guard was the ability to surprise. He haltingly shuffled to the door, senses alert. The man outside sniffled then sneezed. Ari could only hope he was weakened with an illness.

An image of Britta, her pale cheeks flushing as she met his eyes, sprang to mind. If his men killed her, he would never forgive himself.

Gathering his strength, he pulled up the latch on the heavy wooden door, thankful it locked from inside. In one fluid move, he yanked the door back, thrusting his body forward to assault the unwitting guard.

Too late he realized that there were only two long steps between the landing and the first steep stair. When he collided with the large Irish guard’s frame, he knocked them both into the darkened stone stairwell. Their bodies plummeted onto the jutting steps, tumbling over one another.

Fresh pain gave him a light head, and when they reached the bottom step, Ari’s world went black.

Chapter Five

When Britta met Ronan in the great hall, she was not surprised to see that he was wearing his long mail shirt. His sword was sheathed, and he carried his mace over one shoulder. Trying to look at him as the Vikings would, she imagined he would seem like a regular demon, with his blazing eyes and red wool clothing.

Ronan nodded, taking the lead. “May the shield of God protect us from these pagans. May the angels of God give us protection. And may Christ be over all. Amen.”

She felt safer walking toward the unknown with this God-fearing demon Irishman at her side. Their steps echoed as they entered the stone courtyard outside the entryway. The morning was brisk, and the cold air made her wish she had donned her woolen cape. But she wanted to appear unarmed to the Northmen.

Ronan led the way through the plush green grass, around the small streams she knew so well. She tried to forget her mission, noting how the clouds cast shadows and patterns on their hills. But after they climbed the final rise, she gasped. The field that edged the rocky gray coastline was dotted with drab-colored tents—at least twenty of them.

Farther off, where the grass gave way to the shoreline, they had dug a semicircular earthen rampart, blocking their long, dragon-prowed ships from easy attack. At least ten fully armed men guarded the dirt blockade.

As they drew closer, smells of cooked fish assailed them. The Northmen themselves struck her as incredibly hairy, with beards and fur vests and long, wild hair. Each one seemed to have several weapons on his belt.

These were barbarians indeed, handily shaping the land to their own purposes and sleeping outside in the elements. They were rough and rugged as the stags on Crow Mountain.

She shook her head. “Indeed I do. You cannot enter their camp alone. They will see you as a threat because you are a threat. You cannot hide the passion shining in your eyes—you would like to see them all dead.”

He looked to the camp and nodded. “You are correct. But you must admit it is wise to be distrustful of these heathen. You have read the stories, Britta, and you have heard our monks’ fearful prayer: ‘From the fury of the Northmen, deliver us, O Lord.’ These Northmen have ravaged our shores for so many years, I am certain they intend to plunder our castle.” He paused, his russet eyes searching hers. “Your blond invalid is no innocent. He came to vanquish us—make no mistake. I see the passion in his eyes.”

Britta could not deny it was true. Occasionally when he wasn’t watching her, she noticed how a strange sadness would darken Ari’s countenance. It was as if he were pining for someone. Was it a woman from his homeland? Perhaps a wife?

She shook off her doubts, pointing to a leather-clad, grizzle-bearded man who had silently moved toward them. When they glanced his way, he leaned on a tall spear, affecting carelessness. “It is too late to argue over this. They have already seen us.”

With feigned boldness, she strode toward the man, holding her crowned head high. She could feel Ronan’s solid bulk moving directly behind her.

About three feet from the scar-faced warrior, she stopped short and gathered herself to her full height, which apparently didn’t amount to much. The Northmen towered over her as they began to form a semicircle around their leader. Their hands hung by their sides, but they had easy access to the sharpened swords and axes on their belts.

Table of Contents

Prologue

The Distant Tide

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five