The Warrior's Salvation (Warriors of Eriu Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  More from Mia

  The Warrior’s Salvation

  Warriors of Ériu

  Book One

  By: Mia Pride

  To my Granny.

  Thank you for a lifetime of unconditional love.

  I miss you every day.

  Copyright © 2017 by Mia Pride

  The Warrior’s Salvation

  Published by: Mia Pride

  www.miapride.com

  https://www.facebook.com/miaprideauthor

  Edited by Liz Watson

  Proofread by Bethannee Witczach

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: [email protected]

  This book is a historical work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1976578182

  ISBN-10: 1976578183

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  More from Mia

  Chapter 1

  Alba (Scotland) 78 AD

  “By the gods man. You will never get a lass into your bed if you continue to scowl down into the bottom of your ale mug.” A strong hand came down and clapped Jeoffrey between the shoulder blades and his grimace deepened. Would his best mate ever leave him be?

  “I care not for any lass,” Jeoffrey responded as he picked up his clay mug and took a long pull of ale into his mouth. The froth tickled the hairs of his upper lip, but he kept chugging, ignoring the liquid dripping down his chin. He wiped the ale off his mouth with his blue tunic sleeve and slammed the mug back down on the knobby wooden table before him. “I came to the gathering hall to think, not to be pestered by your cursed cheerful nature again.”

  Alastar scoffed and plopped down on the bench next to Jeoffrey. His best mate could take a hint, he just did not care to take it. Nay, that was what Alastar did best. He kept an infallible smile on his face and pretended the world around him did not efficiently torture a man’s soul. Although, in truth, Alastar was much too content being alone in this world and bedding any willing lassie who walked passed him. The scars of war may still show on the surface of Alastar’s back, but the scars of love had not yet destroyed his heart, as they had Jeoffrey’s.

  “Since we made our journey to Alba from Ériu, you have been horrible company,” Alastar commented as he grabbed a mug of ale from a serving lass passing by with a wink.

  Jeoffrey rolled his eyes at Alastar. Alastar wasn’t wrong. He knew he had changed since the fateful battle that had led him to kill his father and leave their homeland. But too much had happened to Jeoffrey in the past few years and all he wanted to do now was tend the farm he had worked so hard to earn since arriving in Alba. He wanted to be left alone to work his land and forget not only the battle, but two women who seemed to haunt his dreams.

  It was well known to all the people in his new village of Miathi that Jeoffrey was the son of Elim Mac Conrach, the man who had usurped the throne from the rightful High King of Ériu over twenty summers ago. He was also the son who slew his own father when the rightful High King’s son, Tuathal Techtmar, came out of exile from Alba to take back his father’s throne.

  Nobody ever asked why he killed his own father. Elim had been a madman and everyone knew it. He destroyed his land and his people, and he ruled through fear. Jeoffrey had followed his schemes for years out of familial duty and loyalty, but when his father asked him to abduct the beautiful daughter of their enemy, Jeoffrey’s life had gone down a dark and twisted path that had led him here, across the sea, away from all he had known before.

  Aye, he killed his father in order to save the life of the woman he abducted, the woman he had grown to love…the woman who was married and in love with her own husband. Treasa. Saying her name, even in the safety of his own mind, caused Jeoffrey to wince at the reminder of all he would never have.

  Alastar slapped his back again, jolting him out of his brooding. “Jeoffrey. You are a war hero, mate! All the bards in Ériu have been singing your praise, telling of the man who stood up to Elim the Tyrannical and slew him, saving the woman he loved and all Ériu in the process! You should be using those stories to your benefit, mate. You should have a line of lassies waiting to climb into your bed, not be sitting in this gathering hall getting pissed all alone. That lass Ealasaid would have you any way you wished to take her. She is a bonny lass.” Aye, rumors from his homeland had spread far and wide, proclaiming Jeoffrey a hero, but nothing about his life felt heroic. While Treasa was across the sea and happy with her husband Eoin again, he was here in Alba with nobody except his ridiculous best mate.

  And if the people truly knew the details of that story, how the woman he loved was actually his captive, how he had stormed into her home in the middle of the night, knocked her husband out with the hilt of his sword and forced her to marry him instead…nobody would call him a hero then. Of course, he had been forced to comply with these orders by his father, but he had done those things nonetheless. Even fleeing across the sea to Alba could not erase his shame. Nay, he deserved this punishment, to be alone in a foreign land. First, he had lost his intended bride, Clarice, when she ran off with his cousin four years previously, and now Treasa. Mayhap he was meant to live a solitary life.

  Treasa’s image in his mind started to change, her blonde curls turning into dark brown waves and her hazel eyes suddenly a deep blue, the color of the sea on a bright summer day. Clarice. By the gods! Why was her image suddenly coming back to haunt him as well? Could he not escape the ghosts of his past?

  Jeoffrey needed to get out of this stifling gathering hall. The smoke was thick and suddenly he felt as if he was suffocating. It had nothing to do with thoughts of Clarice and Treasa dancing around in his mind, mocking him for his many failures.

  “Enough, Alastar!” Jeoffrey grumbled as he pushed the wooden bench back and stood up abruptly. “I have all I need. I have my farm. You know all I ever wanted was a farm. I never wanted to be my father’s heir or leader of any battles! A lifetime spent training as a warrior, being ordered to slaughter men, kidnap innocent lassies, do unspeakable things for the man who sired me…nay I will not call him father. He was a beast. I will not be like him. I am glad to be rid of Ériu and all the poisonous memori
es I left behind!”

  A commotion from the front of the gathering hall caught his attention. He spun on his heels to follow the gasps and shouts of the villagers when their peaceful evening was interrupted by the shrill cry of a woman storming through the doors as if her life depended on it, the frigid winter cold following in her wake.

  Her brown hair was matted in a nest of knots, wrapped around her face from the wind outside. She wore a red cloak that was also twisted around her body and her leather boots were caked with snow. She looked like a wee lass. She probably wouldn’t reach past the middle of his chest. There was a green wool blanket in her arms and she clung to it with everything she had, like the most valuable thing in her world resided within its warmth. When the bundle moved and a small leg peaked out from beneath, Jeoffrey realized it was indeed the most precious thing to this woman. She carried a wee child.

  Gripping the child even tighter with one arm, she used her free hand to swipe her disheveled hair away from her face. Jeoffrey’s heart sank to his toes. His blood ran cold and his stomach churned. Those same ocean blue eyes that had been haunting him just a moment ago…and more often than he cared to admit over the last four years, searched the crowd in a panic as she stepped forward and grabbed onto the first man she saw. “You must help me! Please!”

  Alastar shot up out of his chair and laughed. He always laughed at the most inappropriate times. “I think the gods are trying to tell you something, mate.”

  The hall had gone silent and Alastar’s lone voice seemed to boom and linger in the still air. Her eyes shot straight to them and she stilled when her gaze landed on Jeoffrey. Instinctively, she clutched her child tighter to her body and gasped, “Jeoffrey?”

  Of all the women in all the clans in all of Alba…why did his former intended bride, the one who had ripped his heart out of his chest and run off with his cousin, literally come storming into his life again? “Clarice.”

  ***

  “Tis your fault he is dead, Clarice!” Gregory charged at her and gripped her long brown hair tightly in his fist, yanking her head back until she swore she felt her scalp being ripped away from her skull. “You poisoned him!”

  She cried in pain as he yanked harder, tears leaking out the corners of her eyes. She prayed her young son, Jeoffrey, was safely hiding beneath his bed as she had taught him to do whenever Gregory visited. “Nay! I told you! I came home from tending the garden and found him dead in our home! I do not know how he died!”

  “Liar! You killed my brother!” Gregory smacked Clarice across the face, sending her reeling to the ground. At least he had relinquished his grip on her hair. Her scalp screamed in pain, but she refused to do the same. This was Gregory’s way. Ever since Harrold had died suddenly two moons ago, Gregory had been showing up regularly and threatening to have her tried for murder if she did not agree to marry him. Why he thought she would kill her beloved Harrold was a mystery. Why he was willing to set such a horrible accusation aside if she married him was an even greater mystery.

  Harrold had been her greatest friend in a cruel world. He had saved her and her child from certain death. He had helped her flee the cruelty of Elim and his threats, securing them passage to Alba on a trade ship, proving their worth in a new world where people were not quick to accept newcomers. They had ended up in this small tuath called Caledonii only because Harrold had his brother here. Gregory had been kind at first, helping them become accepted by his people and allowing them to live in his roundhouse with his wife, Paulene.

  Gregory’s kindness did not come without a price. It started with sideways glances, then open admiration for Clarice. Soon, admiration turned into something much more physical and Clarice began to leave the house early and stay out late, desperate to avoid his attentions. He dared not touch her in front of Harrold, for Harrold was a large warrior who would have slaughtered his own brother to protect her and Wee Jeoffrey. But on those days she could not avoid the man, he would walk past her and grope her breasts or her backside. She never dared lash out, for his wee sickly wife had become a dear companion to Clarice and her health was so frail Clarice was worried any upset would be the death of Paulene.

  Several moons ago, Harrold built a small roundhouse just for their family of three on the edge of the village. It was not common for families to live alone, but he sensed Clarice’s distress over Gregory’s interest in her and had done what he always did…he protected her. Things seemed to calm down and they fell into an easy rhythm, but she never forgot the love of her life, the man she had left behind in Ériu. And it had not taken long for Gregory to start making visits while Harrold was out hunting or training with the other warriors. When Harrold came home after a hunt one evening to find Gregory forcing her against the wall, her skirt hiked up to her knees and tears streaming down her face while Wee Jeoff hid under a bed, something in Harrold snapped. The brothers fought viciously, but Gregory walked away with his tail between his legs, knowing he could not defeat Harrold.

  Several more moons passed in peace, until the day she came home to find Harrold dead upon the cold earthen floor of their small home. There was no blood nor sign of foul play. It appeared as if the man had dropped dead of some internal unknown condition and a strange rash covered his body. Grief unlike anything she had ever felt in her life consumed her to the point of madness. Her best companion was gone, the man who gave up his own life to save hers. Very soon after, Paulene died from the illness that had been plaguing her for so long. Aside from Wee Jeoffrey, Clarice had nobody in the world.

  “I will tell you one more time, Clarice. I need a wife. You need a man. You will marry me, or I will turn you into the chieftain for murdering my brother and my wife! You cannot afford to pay the honor-price of murder and will be given to me as a slave in payment.” Gregory’s cruel threats rang in her ears, or mayhap the ringing was caused by the slap he had struck across her cheek only moments before.

  The accusation was too much for her tender, grieving heart to bear. “I did not kill Harrold! I loved Harrold!” she sobbed and covered her dirt-streaked face in the palms of her hands. She dared not look at the bed and allow her poor son to witness the pain in her eyes. She prayed he would be a good wee lad and stay hidden. Gregory was not to be trusted near her child.

  “I will give you until daybreak to make the right decision, Clarice. I will be back with the druid and the chieftain. You will become my wife or my slave. Tis your choice. Choose wisely.” The cold calmness of his tone was even more frightening than his calculated threat. He meant what he said. If she was tried and found guilty of murder, the Brehon, whose job it was to see the laws upheld and justice served, would force her to pay the honor-price of the victims. Harrold was a warrior and Paulene was of noble birth. Their honor-price would be high simply because of their station in society. Planned murders often received a doubled price. She had nay land of her own. Nay livestock. Nothing of value. If she could not pay, she would be given to the surviving kin of the victims as a slave. Once she belonged to him, he could legally do as he willed with her.

  Clarice shuddered. Who was she in this village? What would her word mean against the man who had lived here for so many more years and fought to protect them? She had been fortunate to have been accepted into their careful circle of trust within Caledonii, but if it was her word or his, she knew who everyone would believe.

  “Til morn, Clarice. You truly only have one choice.” Gregory left her small house, slamming the frail wooden door until it almost cracked in two and a piece of thatch fell from the narrow, pointed roof.

  Wee Jeoffrey crawled out of his hiding space and launched his small body onto hers. He was but a three-year-old lad, much too young to witness such cruelty and violence. What would become of him if she defied Gregory and became a slave? What would become of him if she relented and married Gregory? As she made shushing noises into Jeoffrey’s ear and ran her fingers through his brown hair while she rocked him on her lap, she knew Gregory was correct about one thing. She only had on
e choice: to run.

  ***

  Night. The cover of darkness. It was the only hope she had to escape. As the fires started to be lit around the village and loud laughter started drifting on the breeze, she packed everything they owned, which was not much at all, into the large leather satchel she had brought along with her from Ériu. She was used to living off naught but the land. Growing up the poor daughter of a serf, her entire life had been a fight for survival. She could survive this as well.

  “Mama?” Wee Jeoffrey’s voice called to her from his small wooden bed. Harrold had made that bed for him with his own bare hands. Cut down the tree, chopped up the wood, whittled intricate designs into the hard surface before finally sanding it down into a smooth finish. It had been a labor of love and Clarice’s heart ached as she prepared to leave her home again.

  Nay, this was not home. She had no home, not without Harrold. Her home had only ever been where life took her. For most of her life, her family had followed in the wake of Elim Mac Conrach, the man who had stolen the crown from the rightful High King. But he had promised the serfs freedom, a life filled with stability and happiness. That was how she met Jeoffrey, the son of the king. His dark brown eyes had captured her from the time she was a wee lass and he was just a lad trusting in the will of his father.

  Jeoffrey became her home. They grew up together, meeting clandestinely beneath the stars while the rest of their camp slumbered. He was the heir to the High Throne of Ériu and she was naught more than a serving lass. Their relationship never stood a chance, but it had not stopped them from meeting in the night, their bodies coming together with a force that neither could have ever denied. Their soul connection had been all-consuming, and so had their lovemaking. She had been a lass of seven and ten summers when he finally asked her to marry him. But his father had learned of their plans to run off and marry against his will, and her life had come to a screeching halt.