The Warrior And The Healer: A Medieval Irish Tale

By Darlene Hesley

Great history, great romance, great angst, great sex! Those are comments from test readers about The Warrior and the Healer - a medieval Irish tale.
Set a decade after the Norman invasion, many people in 12th Century Ireland, including Magaidh, a stunning 20-year-old Gaelic woman who greatly undervalues herself, fear the traditions, rituals and beauty of their Celtic ancestry will be swept away. With no husband or no great talents her family of artisans, and with no spiritual calling, Magaidh accepts the opportunity to attend a resistance campaign in the most remote reaches of western, coastal Ireland.
There she meets Raghnall, a warrior from a band of Fianna, a leader among men who would spill his last drop of blood to fight the Norman invaders and preserve Ireland’s Celtic legacy. Also at the campaign, Magaidh meets an elder, Ethnui, who leads her along a path she never dreamed would be hers – to ease the suffering of others.
To their great surprise, Magaidh and Raghnall also discover more to fight and live for beyond their love for their culture. They are soulmates who charm each other’s hearts with courage and wisdom.
The Warrior and the Healer - a medieval Irish tale, is an historical romance on the sexy side, featuring a strong young heroine, and a warrior-for-hire with a mysterious past, linked to the nobility of Ireland. Unfortunately, a warrior cannot bear to live the simple life of a townsman and a young Irish woman cannot live on a battlefield. Can love live side-by-side with loyalty? What is stronger – devotion to culture, or devotion to the yearnings of the human heart? Magaidh and Raghnall struggle to answer these questions.
Excerpt:
“You confuse me, Raghnall. You seem a brute, yet you speak eloquently of the stars. You have no woman, yet you are the sort of man women desire. You seem intelligent beyond what I would imagine of those in your profession.” Magaidh stared at him sideways. “Surely you long for life with a woman...a home you can call yours...children of your own.”
“I do not,” Raghnall snapped. “I am not one of your classes,” he said. “I live outside the boundaries of society. I refuse to be absorbed by people of your kind, either by desire or design.”
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Magaidh said quietly. “To neither want nor need what is socially commonplace seems rebellious.” A chill ran up her spine. “To live a life unchained by society’s ideals is a brave choice indeed.”
Raghnall gave her a look of shocked surprise. “I thought you would be incensed at my words...insulted even.”
Magaidh shook her head back and forth slowly. “No. No...not at all...not insulted...not incensed.” A thrill built low in her belly. “The thought of such defiance is stimulating. I wish I had the courage to throw off social tradition and care not what people thought. I wish I had half the sense of rebellion you have.”
Excerpt:
“I want tonight to be a different memory from last night. The sharing of bodies can be wild and fierce. It can also be tender and kind. Both bring much pleasure.”
The night breeze was warm, but Magaidh shivered as he undid her belt. She lifted her bottom and he pulled her léine slowly up and over her head. She was not wearing her linen underneath and the moon shone on her breasts.
“You are very, very beautiful,” Raghnall breathed, caressing her breasts and leaning forward to rub his face between them. Magaidh wove her fingers into his golden hair and held him tight against her chest for several minutes before he pulled away.
“I want these to be fully in my view as we share our bodies,” he said, his hands cupping her breasts. “I wish to see you above me, your form and face one with the stars in the night sky.”
Excerpt:
His long mane fell loosely about his shoulders and cast golden locks down his chest and back.
“I have never known a woman to smell as sweet. I can only imagine, and soon will know, if you taste as sweet as you smel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darlene Hesley
• Release date: Apr 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9780991893744

Darlene Hesley

Darlene Hesley is a happily married mother of one who lives somewhere between Toronto and Manitoulin Island in Ontario, Canada. She is an avid fan of The X-Files and loves writing fiction, eating great food and drinking red wine. She was a reporter, trade magazine writer and corporate communications specialist before becoming a full-time novelist. The Fifty List was is her first full-length novel and she absolutely loved writing it. She started on the sequel, The Other Side of Fifty, moments after finishing the first book. The third book in the trilogy, Fifty More, is now available on Smashwords and its various affiliates. Earlier this year, she released The Warrior and the Healer - A Medieval Irish Tale. Set in 12th Century Ireland, it's historical romance, kinda on the sexy side, featuring a strong young heroine, and a warrior-for-hire with a mysterious past, somehow linked to the nobility of Ireland. Both share the cause of fighting for their ancestry after the Norman Invasion of 1171. Great history, great romance, great angst, great sex!

Book preview

The Warrior and the Healer

A medieval Irish tale

Darlene Hesley

Disclaimer

This book is a work of fiction. Whereas the author strived for historical accuracy about life in 12th Century Ireland, references to historical events, people or places are either fictional or used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright © 2014 Darlene Hesley

All rights reserved.

ISBN – 978-0-9918937-4-4

BOOKS BY DARLENE HESLEY

The Fifty List series:

The Fifty List (Book 1)

The Other Side of Fifty (Book 2)

Fifty More (Book 3)

The Warrior and the Healer – A medieval Irish tale

WWW.DARLENEHESLEY.COM

Dedication

To Pam Williams, who put the thought in my head.

Table of Contents

1181 A.D Loch Ollarbha – Before Lughnasadh

1178 A.D. – Lughnasadh

1178 A.D. – Samhain

1181 A.D. – Samhain

1182 A.D. Loch Ollarbha – After Imbolc

1182 A.D. Loch Ollarbha – Just past Beltaine

1182 A.D. Mhuileat

1169 A.D. Loch Ollarbha

1182 A.D. Mhuileat

1176 A.D. Loch Ollarbha

1182 A.D. Mhuileat

1182 A.D. Heading to Loch Ollarbha

1182 A.D. Loch Ollarbha

1183 A.D. Loch Ollarbha – Just before Beltaine

1187 A.D. Loch Ollarbha

1183 A.D. Loch Ollarbha

1185 A.D. Loch Ollarbha

1187 A.D. Loch Ollarbha

About the author

Read other books by Darlene Hesley

Acknowledgements

Thanks so much to my wonderful team of editors and friends – you keep me writing – you keep me honest.

Bruce, Doug, Gay, Laurie

Glossary

Place names:

Acaill Island – Achill Island

Aghadoe – Killarney

Baile an Mhóta – Ballymote

Caiseal – Cashel

Ceann Lorrais – Erris Head

Balibony – Ballymoney

Béal Átha Seanaidh – Ballyshannon

Caiseal – Cashel

Cill Bheagáin – KIlbeggan

Cill Cannig – Kilkenny

Cill Dalua – Killaloe

Clochán na bhFomhóraigh – Giant’s Causeway

Corcach Mor Mumhan – Cork

Cnoc na Loinge – Knockalongy (mountain)

Dingle – An Daingean

Duibhlinn – Dublin

Éire – Ireland

Gaillimh – Galway

Inis – Ennis

Inis Ceithleann – Enniskillen

Kyle Cofthy – Clonakilty

Loch Ollarbha – Larne

Lough Ríbh – Lough Ree

Luimneach – Limerick

Mhuileat – Bellmullet/Mullet Peninsula

Nemthenn – Nephin Beg mountain range

Character names:

Abaigeal – Abigail

Áine of Knockaine – Goddess of love and fertility

Baltair – Walter

Brádan – Braden

Ceiteag – Katie

Cian – Kane

Ciorsdan – Christina

Cuithbeart – Cuthbert

Daibhidh – David

Diarmad – Dermid

Ethniu – Enya

Faolan – Fillan

Leitis – Letitia

Magaidh – Maggie

Moireach – Martha

Muire – Mary

Niall – Neal

Óengus Mac Óg – God of youth, love and beauty

Oisean – Ossian

Ó Dálaigh – O’ Daly

Olibhia – Olivia

Queen Meaḋḃ – Queen Maeve

Raghnall – Randal

Sheenagh – Sheena

Sileas – Julia

Ua Conchobair – O’Connor

Una – Agnes

Ní – precedes surname for unmarried woman

Uí – precedes surname for married woman

Seasonal festivals

(Held halfway between solstice and equinox)

Beltaine: April 30 to May 1

Lughnasadh: July 31 to August 1

Samhain: Sunset on Oct. 31 to sunset on Nov. 1

Imbolc: January 31 to February 1

Terms:

An lár – town centre

Babaí – baby

Baile – town

Bean leighis – woman of healing/medicine woman

Brat – woolen cloak

Brogs – shoes

Coibche – dowry paid to woman or woman’s family

Dauvagh – bathing tub

Feadan – fife

Fianna – freelance warriors

Fine – clan

Focáil – hit skin/have sex (vulgar usage)

Gaeilge – Gaelic

Gaeltacht – Gaelic-speaking regions

Grianans – apartment-style home additions, usually for women

Guthbuinne – bassoon-type horn

Leanbh – child

Léine – tunic worn by both women and men

Muc – pig

Ór muire – marigold

Porry – porridge of leaves, leeks and bread cooked all day in a caldron

Rígfénnid – leader of a band of fianna

Ringfort – circular rampart surrounding a dwelling

Rúndacht – secrecy

Seanmháthair – grandmother

Swain – lover

Teachglach – household

Timpan – stringed instrument played with a bow

Túathas – territories/kingdoms

Settle – wooden bench with arms and high back

Swedes – turnips

Uisce beatha – whiskey

Phrases:

Ad rud a lionas an tsuil lionann se an croi – What fills the eye fills the heart

A leanbh mo chroí…a leanbh ár ghrá – Child of my heart…child of our love

Go dte tú an cead – May you live to be 100

Oích mhaith agus codladh sámh – Goodnight and peaceful sleep

Tada gan iarract – Nothing is done without effort

Tá tú go h-álainn – You are beautiful

Téigh trasna ort féin – Go foc yourself

Author’s note:

People in 12th Century Ireland would likely have spoken a mixture of languages, including Middle English, Anglo-Norman French, Latin, Middle Gaelic/Gaeilge (Middle Irish), Yola, Fingallian, Norse and an infinite variety of local and regional dialects. For the sake of easy reading, this book is written as if the characters speak generally in modern-day English.

While schools in Ireland teach Gaelic, and 70 per cent of the population reports learning it in school, a 2006 census showed less than four per cent use the language outside of the educational system. Regardless, interest in the language has seen a great resurgence in recent years thanks to the modern miracle of Mother Google.

Gaelic is still widely spoken in small Gaeltacht areas along the west coast, especially in Counties Donegal, Galway and Kerry, and the off-lying western islands.

1181 A.D. Loch Ollarbha – Before Lughnasadh

Magaidh Ní Dálaigh was a tall young woman. Like many females who had reached the age of maturity, she had long, flowing hair that reached to her waist. But unlike her sisters, who pulled their hair up tightly or spent hours curling it fashionably, Magaidh preferred to let her raven-black hair fall loosely down her back. She loved the way it felt when the wind on top of the cliffs blew it this way and that in the evening breeze.

Her brat was tattered, but she didn't care. It shrugged back off her shoulders, revealing muscles strengthened by woolen blankets she had woven on the loom that past winter. They stood out boldly in the shadows of the setting sun.

While her family had a degree of wealth, weaving one’s own coverings was not only a sign of fortitude, it was an art form handed down from generation to generation. Magaidh had the fortune of learning at the feet of Grandmother Leitis, who had a gift with the intricacies of the loom. Her family had enough fortune to afford several colours, but Magaidh preferred to weave with wool black as the sheep in the fields. Almost all the sheep in Éire were black.

Everyone in her family had a gift for artistic endeavour. They were file, a tribe of artisans, poets, writers, magicians, seers and sculptors reaching as far back as her family records were known.

At one time, the Ó Dálaighs danced, painted, recited stories and told fortunes for kings. The Normans had put a stop to that, but their invaders never broke the spirit of even one member of her clan. The Ó Dálaighs were proud every person had cleaved to the beauty of the arts.

The Christians were mighty in number, Magaidh mused, staring out over the long straight of Loch Ollarbha. She didn’t hate the Christians – half the people in Éire had adopted the religion over the past 500 years. Regardless, she thought, Christians had nothing to compare to her family culture, which celebrated time-honoured traditions and rituals handed down from Celtic ancestors. What she hated were the Normans, and King Henry II, who had the impudence to invade their lands and attempt to erase their culture.

Magaidh raised her hands high above her head and pulled her lips back from her teeth in a wide smile. The sun was about to slip back beyond the wall of the earth. For the people of Éire, the setting sun meant the beginning of a new day. It was her favourite moment. She squeezed her eyes tightly for one brief second and thanked Ériu, a matron goddess of Éire, for the spectacular sight.

Magaidh opened her eyes wide and stared directly into the sun. Bumps rose on her arms as it slipped away. She often wondered where it went. Some in the village thought it dissolved beneath the floor of the earth and spent the night gathering its energy again to appear on the other side. Magaidh knew she dare not speak of it to the villagers, but she heard a story long ago from her uncle that the sun and earth were nothing but large balls. Uncle Oisean told her the earth spun like a child’s top and the sun only seemed to disappear at night.

Oisean placed apples and pears and quince on the table to represent the sun, the earth and the moon. He helped her spin them this way and that, telling a tale of how the moon circled the earth and the earth circled the sun.

Magaidh was elated and wanted to tell all her friends. Uncle Oisean grabbed her hand, which was wrapped around a quince, and squeezed hard enough not only for it to hurt, but for the over-ripe quince to squish between her fingers.

"No, he said, harshly, immediately releasing his grasp. You will tell no person of this – no person beyond our clan. To do so would cause pain and suffering to many. I can teach you many things, child, but only if I have honesty from your heart you will not share my teachings with others."

Magaidh looked into her uncle’s sea-blue eyes. They were crinkled around the edges. She gazed at her hand and spread her fingers, watching the quince ooze between them. She brought her hand to her mouth, her tongue darting between her fingers and sucking in the tart, bitter taste of quince. Her sisters hated it, but she loved it. She sucked it all off and carefully looked up at her uncle again.

He was waiting.

She took several moments to speak.

"Uncle, I want to know everything. I want to know everything you know, everything my parents know and everything my ancestors have learned over the centuries."

The youngster drew in a deep breath and stuck out her chest. I am a Gael. I will never want to be anything other than a Gael. I am an Ó Dálaigh. Not only that, I am a descendant of Dálach of the Kingdom of Theba. I know I am young, but I am not stupid. I was being girlish a moment ago when I said I wanted to share this knowledge with my friends.

Magaidh set her small hand, still sticky with the quince, on her uncle’s large palm. She looked into eyes set deeply into a full, round face, covered with a thick, black beard. Do not worry, uncle – I am a sponge – I will hold knowledge as a sponge holds sea water. I will never give it up to anyone outside our tribe.

Oisean squeezed the little girl’s hand softly.

There’s something about this one, he thought. Something special about this one.

Uncle Oisean had breathed his last breath in the past year. A mast had cracked and come crashing down on his leg during a short sea voyage. It had left a deep gash, but Oisean had been cut many times and always recovered. Fishing ships always had something sharp on board that posed a threat to skin. This time, however, the gash grew redder and the leg swelled with pain.

He visited the town apothecary when the ship came back to the loch. The old man gave Oisean poultices to wrap around the leg. It continued to swell, doubling its size and reddening more day by day. The apothecary visited Oisean’s home for a bloodletting. Oisean lay in his bed and fell into a fever, cycling through the land of the waking and the land of the dreaming. After five days, his time in the land of the waking ended.

Magaidh fancied Uncle Oisean had gone to the glorious realm of Mag Mell beneath the ocean. She remembered his face vividly as the setting sun sent spikes of light dancing above the spot where it disappeared below the water. Magaidh suspected it was Uncle Oisean putting on a spectacular show especially for her. The remnants of the sun often danced. It must be his gift from the other side.

Magaidh reached up even higher with her hands, feeling the muscles in her sides stretch. She pulled her arms wide to the sides and left them there for a moment before dropping them. She breathed in deeply. The smell of salt hung deeply in the air. It always smelled saltiest to her right here, where the sea water of the loch began to mix with the fresh water of the Ollarbha River. The colour of the water changed from dark blue to slate gray as the light dimmed.

She’d come to watch the sunset every night since the beginning of summer solstice. The days were long and the warmth held into the night. Even the wind whipping up above the cliffs was pleasantly balmy, rippling the light cloth of her léine and making her brat almost unnecessary.

Magaidh revelled in the warm weather. Her father told her it had been unusually mild since he was a young man. In his grandfather’s day, Éire had been much colder, with summers more comfortably cool than mercilessly hot. Many elders predicted the colder weather would return within a generation – the summers and winters becoming more balanced, rather than so extreme.

She loved the heat, but relished the idea of future winters less cold, gloomy and damp. The sun barely arced above the line of the trees and it hung in the sky for precious few hours – and Magaidh had to wear so many clothes. In summer, when the sun rose almost in the middle of night and stayed up until one was sleepy, she wore as little as possible.

The swell of her breasts was visible at the low neckline of her pale yellow léine, but she cared not who saw...anyone who objected need not look. Her sisters lived in tight undergarments, but Magaidh would have rather died than be part of such torment. She liked to think of herself a woman of earthly pleasures and reveled in the curves of her body.

Magaidh always came to watch the sunset alone, both out of necessity and choice. Her sisters could think of nothing much more boring. Magaidh was secretly happy. Coming out to the cliffs to say goodbye to the sun and witness her uncle’s magic was one of the few times when she wasn’t surrounded by chatter. She loved all three of her sisters dearly, but was happy to get away from them for a few precious moments of solitude.

Magaidh turned around. The moon had risen behind her. She cocked her head to the side and smiled. It really does look like a little old man’s face, like Father said when I was wee.

Magaidh sulked. What she really felt like doing was lying down in the long grass and watching the moon as it journeyed across the sky. She’d done it many times before…but it always ended up in a stern scolding from her mother. Young women weren’t supposed to be out all night staring at the sky. It just wasn’t normal, her mother had said. Una did not see the appeal at all.

Magaidh pouted at the thought of leaving this peaceful place and walking home. It seemed nobody understood the perfection of lying utterly still, feeling the earth press solidly against one’s back while letting one’s eyes fall in and out of focus, staring up at a pitch-black sky full of dazzling points of light.

Well, nobody but Father, anyway. Magaidh grinned as she stepped over the uneven ground and began her walk back home. Her father understood her love of the sky, the sun, the moon and the brilliant points of light above. Like his brother Oisean, he too had an appreciation for the poetry the world and the sky wrote together.

Father would wake her in the middle of the night and tell her to be very quiet as he draped her in a woolen wrap and took her outside. Together, they stared at the sky, sometimes for hours, and watched in wonder at how the lights moved in definite patterns.

Sometimes Uncle Oisean would join them. The two men would pass a skin bag back and forth between them and drink from it. Magaidh never drank from the skin, but her father always had a jug of honeyed milk for her to drink. He’d pour from the cloudy green glass jug circled with strips of bronze – which Oisean bought in Italy – and close it tightly with a long, thin bung – which he made himself of native alder. Baltair always said alder made the best vessel stoppers.

Magaidh loved honeyed milk. She’d sit and sip it slowly from a corner of the two-handled mether. Somehow it always tasted best at night, poured into the square wooden mether Baltair had carved himself out of a solid block of yew. Even as a child, Magaidh appreciated the artistry her father put into each cup, every bowl and his many other wooden creations.

Sitting on the ground, looking at the sky, Magaidh would listen to her father and uncle talk. She didn’t understand most of it, at least not when she was very little. Much of it was riddled in stories about animals and kingdoms and warriors. Some of their talk was of strange measurements, angles and patterns.

Often, they would slip into the old language and Magaidh couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Still, there was something about the sound of their voices when they spoke the old way that made her feel awash in peace, especially as she grew older.

There was a quality to the language that drew all the worries a young girl had out of her – the worries seemed meaningless and disappeared into the night, as if stars sucked them away, leaving only harmony in their place.

Magaidh learned how to build and tend to fires on those nights. She learned tales of her ancestry. She learned the brothers had been sneaking outside at night since they were young boys, staring up into the sky and wondering about the many points of light.

At times, they met up with others who lit fires and shared stories they had heard from the old ones. Some of them brought sheaves of parchment, quill pens and inks. They drew elaborate patterns and debated about the movement of the bodies above them.

On three occasions when Oisean and Baltair had entered the teen of their years, the pair travelled far into the night and met a band of old men who sat on a high point above the loch. The men shared years of knowledge with the brothers, who were astounded by what they learned. Some of this knowledge they shared with the young men in the village who they met at night. Some of it they shared with no person.

No person other than Magaidh. And Magaidh was sworn to secrecy about everything she learned.

Sometimes, Magaidh wondered why her father and his brother chose her to share this knowledge. Why not Sileas, her eldest sister? Surely, she was smarter than herself and would have shrugged at any knowledge she learned. And what about her younger sister, Ceiteag? She also was a seeker of knowledge – eavesdropping on any conversation she could…when she wasn’t fully absorbed in her painting.

And then there was little Deirdre, who was many years younger, but surely had been handed out mental powers by the gods. Deirdre was a dreamer by nature, and the best musician of any of them.

She could play the harp in rhythm with the tempo of life itself, but at a moment’s notice, she was known to collapse into laughter. Deirdre was the silliest of Magaidh’s three sisters – always laughing at something – and while she wouldn’t want Sileas and Ceiteag to know, Deirdre was her favourite of the three. Being around Deirdre was enough to put a smile on anyone’s face, no matter how lackluster the person’s character…she had a gift for eliciting joy from people.

Any one of her three sisters would have been as much or more worthy of Oisean and Baltair’s special gifts of knowledge, Magaidh mused, as she walked home under a canopy of stars. Among a family of file, she felt a huge degree of incompetency.

Magaidh saw outlines of dwellings and the cargo and fishing ships in dock as she crested the final hill and made her descent into the village. The sun had been gone for an hour and she heard the familiar hum that can only come from a village full of souls. Babies cried. Couples made love. Late dinners were eaten. Children were put to bed – always against their will. They giggled and played games adults had long ago forgotten, under the bed linens with their siblings.

Magaidh’s toe caught in a rut in the hard-packed road and she almost fell, but caught herself at the last minute. She was glad. Her mother had come to put up with her daughter’s late-night wanderings, but arriving home in dirt-caked brat and léine would not have gone over well.

The family home was well-lit and the street was lit dimly with lamps here and there. Whale oil was plentiful in the loch, unlike some towns inland where it could become scarce – beeswax or nut oils weakly lit their homes. In Loch Ollarbha, everything was plentiful. It was full of people and they were all well-fed. Fishermen pulled in nets hanging so heavy with fish and a host of bizarre sea creatures they ripped, giving the women plenty of work in repairing.

The soil was lush and those who worked the fields produced tons of cabbage, yellow carrots, parsnips, calabash, gourds, herbs, swedes, kale, beetroot and spinach. They also cultivated many flowers to perfume their meals, such as roses, lilies, ór muire, gladioli, tansy and catmint.

The elderly were experts in their methods of preserving the haul of the fisherman, the bounty of the field worker and the yields of those who kept slaughter animals. Their methods ensured food was plentiful throughout the year. No matter the season, no person went hungry in Loch Ollarbha. Full waists in adults and plump cheeks in children were a source of pride among the loch’s residents.

Magaidh walked around behind the house and opened the door to a small wooden hut. She lifted her léine and brat and sat on the small hole carved out of the wood bench in the cesspit. As she relieved herself, she was reminded of getting water for the family’s morning hand washing. She should have done it directly after supper, but had forgotten.

She exhaled loudly and pulled a woolly mullein leaf from the basket beside her. She tore off a small piece, just enough to dab at the moisture between her legs. Mullein was a common weed that grew in great abundance – but no point in using the entire leaf unless she absolutely had too. Mother always said one must never take more than one needs, whether it be food, water or any other necessity of life. Extravagance is to be avoided at all costs, her mother’s words rang in her head.

She stood, wincing the moment she rose from the bench.

Damn the gods, she muttered.

Magaidh twisted around and felt a sharp bite in the right side of her bottom. She couldn’t see in the darkness, but she could feel it – a large sliver of wood. She grasped it with the tips of her carefully rounded fingernails and pulled it out, tossing it into the small hole. Magaidh rubbed away the sting