Never to Love: Clan Hewit Trilogy, #1

By Mary Ann Carman

Ciannait's eyes water from the noxious fumes, the clash of swords urge her to run, but helpless, she stands at the postern watching her father battle.

 

The murder of the Clan Hewit chief, her father, and the destruction of her home pressured Ciannait to vow revenge. Eleventh century Ireland is a battleground of clan against clan - if taken, they would abuse her magical healing and witchcraft talents.

 

Given shelter by her uncle, Ciannait is unsure and wary. She watches and listens, but she was unprepared for his announcement of her betrothal. She can't allow this to happen, but what can she do when she meets the handsome prince who tries to steal her heart?

 

Never to Love is the first book in the Clan Hewit Trilogy. If witchy fantasy, romantic suspense, and strong-willed women entice you, this series is for you.

 

Buy Never to Love today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Ann Carman
• Release date: Nov 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386101628

Mary Ann Carman

Mary Ann Carman is the author of ten mystery novels and she’s currently in the planning stage on two more, one of which will be a non-fiction author manual/text. She is also the CEO/Founder of SWPenSlinger; a copywriting firm that guides authors and small business in their marketing ventures. Her latest mystery, A Silver Coin, is fifth in her Love After Life series and will be available before Mid-November 2020. She has found mystery to be her super power, even while working as an RN, she researched the special issues her patients were facing. Mary Ann’s first book, Never to Love, won Honorable Mention in the Jada Romance Novel of the Year Promotion in 2004. Joyce Lavene, the author of over 75 novels, said this about Never to Love: It reminded me how good a historical romance could be - and I loved the paranormal elements!  Mary Ann loves the Tucson weather, cooking & baking, crocheting and knitting, and of course reading. Changing recipes or patterns is like revising your plot lines to fit the narrative you’re aiming for. You can also find Mary Ann on Facebook, Goodreads, and BookBub. Sign up for her email list today to get updates and information on new titles. You can follow her on: Facebook   https://www.facebook.com/maryanncarmanthemacteam Twitter   https://twitter.com/Mary_Ann_Carman Google+   https://plus.google.com/u/0/+MaryAnnCarmantheMACteam Instagram   https://www.instagram.com/mary_ann_carman_ Pinterest    https://www.pinterest.com/macarman6                                                                    At her website, http://www.maryanncarmanauthor.com  you will find information about her and her other books. You can sign up for her newsletter to get the latest information or join the “First Readers Club” for free books.

Book preview

Never to Love

a My WordsWorth Publication

Copyright © 2014 Mary Ann Carman

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the US Copyright Law.

Note: to provide the reader with more of a sample of the actual story, most of the traditional front matter appears at the end.

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. It may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this ebook, please purchase an additional copy for each person with whom you want to share it. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, please return to the bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work

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Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author and publisher.

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Acknowledgments

Harvey Stanbrough, my wonderful, and patient editor, who ran through the forests with Ciannait and me as we tracked down evil. Thanks H, for everything.

Debora Lewis, my e-formatter and cover designer. NTL never would have made it to the screen without your attention to detail. Thanks so much for everything.

Michael Seidman who saw the talent and encouraged me years before. Michael, I’ll always value what you taught me as a newbie.

Margaret May, my long distance pen pal and fellow writer in England. She helped keep my characters in the right century.

Kennys Book Store in Galway, Ireland. Des Kenny took special care to hand pick the historical source books I needed and mailed them to me at light speed. Thanks, Des.

Kim Headlee, who befriended a newbie writer at a conference and has stuck with me over the long haul. Thanks, Kim.

Dan Heller’s pictures of Clare, Ireland, and especially of the Cliffs of Moher directed my mind back to another time. Dan, thank you so much for the journey.

Chivalry Sports – The Arizona Renaissance Festival – and the SCA in general. Thank you. Your attention to detail in costume and other areas were an enormous help.

Gavvins Keep, a website run by Sir Gavvin Quinn. Much of my inspiration came from Gavvin. Thanks.

The Desert Rose and OutReach chapters of RWA. Only a computer e-mail away if you needed help. A big thanks to all of you.

Tanya Comber of GoIreland.com, The Burryman website, LocalIreland, and the Clare Library.

And last but far from least, my readers. If you didn't read, I'd have no reason to write. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

There are so many people who helped me get to this point in my life. I’m sure I’ve forgotten someone, so if I did, remember even though you’re not on this page, you’re in my heart forever.

Table of Content

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

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

First Chapter of All Will Be Well

About the Author

Dedication

Kenneth – I never could have finished this manuscript without your constant pestering about how much I’d finished before you got home from school.

Chad – Your calls often helped me to see how things were going and you gave me the extra support I needed.

And lastly my parents – Herb and Dean Kumba – The ones that always told me I could do anything I wanted to.

I dedicate this book to my family and friends – THANK YOU ALL – I love you.

Here’s the proof.

CHAPTER 1

Ireland – Mabon September, 1065

Keep Ciannait safe! She’s the last of Clan Hewit – she can’t be in danger! Her fighting skills aren’t yet strong enough! The clans would abuse her talents, to say nothing of her beauty! Tiernan stomped toward the hearth, turning his back to Moira, his arms across his chest. He stood brooding.

‘Tis so – but we need herbs for winter. If the war moves this far south we’ll be unable to help. Moira looked up from the bench; her eyes glistened like the sunlight as it reflected off the river Shannon.

Aye – get your herbs; Phelan will come with you. I’m worried about her. Nodding his head toward the women’s quarters, he turned to leave, but stopped when a hand touched his shoulder. Dragging his wife into an embrace, he whispered into her hair, And you, Moira. Then he kissed her.

Ciannait stepped back from the doorway and into her bedchamber. She couldn’t watch, couldn’t invade their privacy. Leaning against the wall, she clenched her fists, closed her eyes, and slipped into a trance as a silent meditation passed her lips. Mother above, hear me clear; the love my parents have is dear. I wish to see my love tonight – open my eyes, give me the sight. Carry my boon to the stars above; I’ll only wed for undying love.

The chill of the burren-stone wall tore through her thin nightshift, pulling her from the trance. She pushed away and gathered the furs pooled on the floor, then grabbed her clothes and donned a simple linen chemise. When she was finished, she ran fingers through her hair and pulled it back with a leather thong. Her boline sat on the chest at the foot of her bed; she picked it up and hooked the white-handled blade onto her braided girdle. She used it only for harvest. A feeling of warmth ran through her fingers, up her arm, and into her heart. Swinging her woolen bratt across her shoulders, she pinned it closed with a brooch she’d received from her uncle. At least I’ll be warm.

Moving into the hall, she noticed that the smells of last night’s Mabon celebration mingled with the aroma of freshly baked bread and filled the air with scents of honeyed mead and cheeses. Her mouth began to water and her stomach rumbled. She smiled when her mother glanced up.

So, ready for today’s weather and eager to go? ‘Tis cool – perhaps ‘twill warm soon. Come. Eat. Moira patted the bench. Ciannait, almost as tall as her mother, sat.

She reached for a chunk of warm, brown bread. A maid poured her a cup of mead. She loved the honey-flavored drink, but much preferred her father’s ale. Stretching out her hand, she placed her fingers around the handle of his tankard and smiled at him as she brought it to her lips. He shook his head and frowned, but a grin escaped. She knew he could deny her nothing.

Tiernan cleared his throat to get their attention. I’ll find Phelan. Pushing back the bench, he stood and strode from the hall.

We don’t need a guard, whispered Ciannait. She leaned toward her mother, her eyes still following her father.

A grin slid across Moira’s face. I’ve already packed our meal. She grabbed Ciannait’s hand; they slipped from the hall, through the kitchens, and out to the postern.

They crossed the gray burren pavements, touched here and there by lively pink hawthorn, their haws ripening; the creeping, yellow wood sage; and grykes filled with herb robert, blooming in pinks and greens. Woods of ash, rowan, and yew stood out against the limestone vastness; warm breezes rustled through the leaves and chanted spells to all who passed. Frost rarely came to the burren, and snow seldom visited.

Ciannait shoved past the ash, its bark gleaming in the sunlight. ‘Tis my favorite time of year.

Why? Moira asked, using Ciannait’s shoulder for support.

The air – ‘tis fresh, crisp, and clean. Ciannait smiled, then inhaled deeply before letting it out and moving on.

The light peeked in slivers through the branches, which arched over them like a ceiling. They neared the druid’s grove of her ancestors. Colorful gentian, halk weeds, and avens mixed with burren grass covered the ground in patches of pinks, yellows, and reds, poking out through the cracks in the stone. In the clearing near the center of the grove, the sun shone like a candle in the darkness.

Ciannait hummed a minstrel’s tune; she’d already begun harvesting herbs at the edge of the grove.

Moira shifted closer. Shhh! I heard something!

Aye – I did too. Ciannait closed her eyes, cocked her head, and listened; she strained to hear.

Moira grabbed Ciannait by her chemise and yanked her to the ground. Hide here in the brush! Horsemen are coming!

Aye, I sense them riding hard – many knights. The thorns of the brambles poked at her, but Ciannait labored to remain quiet. She crept farther forward, away from her mother’s grip but still hidden by the brush; Ciannait prayed silently to the Goddess for safety and invisibility. She would do whatever was necessary. Her knuckles whitened with the grip on her boline.

Hold! We’ll wait here for the stragglers! The one who shouted looked too young to be a leader, but age was difficult to judge. The great war horses snorted and stomped, though held in check. Men in battle-stained curias and leather breeches stood waiting only a short distance from the brush, swords shining with the sun’s rays as it settled through trees.

Ciannait could see better from her vantage point below the brambles once the dust had cleared. She heard the muscular lad speak; he was only a few years older than she. His gaze remained forward, shifting from tree to bush, watching as if he expected something.

She grabbed her middle and gasped when her stomach churned. Her heart jumped to her throat. Did he hear me? Can he see me?

He was handsome, but his eyes kept her attention. They were the strangest shade of gold – amber as the ale she’d sipped this morn. She could sense him near her, felt his eyes looking right at her, through her. But of course that was impossible since she was invisible.

Another man shouted orders and moved to stand beside the lad. Dressed all in black, he raised his hands. Listen! When they’re dead, you leave! Get out fast! I don’t want to be seen. Let’s get this over with. I want to be home by dark! Mounting, they turned and thundered away from the grove.

Moira, who’d seemed quiet though anxious, bolted from hiding and toward her home. Come! Hurry! We’ll never get there in time!

Ciannait smelled the acrid smoke long before she reached the postern. Her nostrils stung and her eyes burned, but the clashing and clanging of swords spurred her on. When she reached the postern in the curtain wall, she shoved the gate open; the leather hinges creaked. A desolate gasp escaped her as she stared wide-eyed at a battlefield of total devastation. The peaceful bailey of her father’s stronghold was now the site of a bloody struggle, unfolding before her eyes. The bodies of her friends and family lay strewn across the blood-drenched ground. They came for a slaughter! She’d sensed it but hadn’t wanted to believe it. They’d come to murder her clan. She slammed her hands over her ears to shut out the anguished cries of the dying, though she was still jolted by every blow. Men and women, young and old, lay dying, their bodies shattered.

Terrified, Ciannait jumped when she felt a hand touch her back. She turned and sprang into her mother’s embrace. She knew Moira also watched the butchery from her trembling, gasping, and quiet sobs.

Ciannait held her mother tightly; tears of pain and anger traced rivulets down her face. She stepped out of the postern and shut the gate, hiding herself and her mother in the brush. On the ground, Ciannait pushed the wet, auburn curls out of her mother’s eyes.

Ciannait turned her head toward the gate. I can’t just hide, she mumbled. They’re fighting for their lives in there. She closed her eyes, a grimace of pain etched across her face. Reaching for her dagger, she started when she felt her mother’s grip.

You must remain here. You heard what your father said. We knew the war would come, though not when – we’d hoped for more time. Moira sat back and wiped her hand across her face to brush away tears before raising her wistful gaze toward the gate. He’d be angry if you were hurt.

Ciannait followed her mother’s gaze, then turned back and stared at her. She huddled closer to keep warm as day turned to night. The winds of change blew heavy.

The fumes wafting from the burning buildings made her feel like retching. Her chest tightened; bile rose in her throat as sweat ran down her neck and back. Even the air tasted of death, thick and muggy.

Ciannait edged forward and squinted through the slats in the wooden gate. I can’t see anything – except smoke and bodies. There’s no way I can heal them all .... She glanced sideways toward her mother. As Ciannait took a deep breath, her arms raised, her eyes closed, and her nostrils flared, she flexed her fingers then opened her hands, palms skyward. The winds, already strong, picked up, swirling over her head. When a body slammed against the gate, she flinched and scooted back toward her mother.

Her mother glared at her, pursed her lips, and shook her head. Nay! Listen and remember!

They’ve no honor! Ciannait spat, enfolding her knees and rocking back and forth; closing her eyes again, she mumbled a prayer to the Goddess for strength to endure.

Moira cocked her ear toward the gate. Listen! They’re leaving! She glanced at her daughter, then stood. The sounds of hundreds of horses’ hooves diminished to be replaced by silence. Ciannait watched motionlessly as her mother pushed the gate open. Then she bolted to her feet to follow, but stood frozen at the postern as her gaze swept across the bailey. There was nothing but death. Smoke rose from the buildings, and bodies had been tossed like rag dolls everywhere. The mercenaries had suffered too; some of their corpses lay in the sanguineous mud of the bailey alongside her clansmen.

Ciannait started forward but Moira’s grip on her arm made her stop. Gasping, she looked up and followed her mother’s line of vision. Father! Tears caught in her throat; she looked at her mother in confusion. Moira bit her lip in silence as her eyes darkened in pain.

Tiernan descended the steps – slowly, cautiously – toward the center of the yard, bloodied from head to foot. His white shirt was stained apple red, and his black trews were glossy with blood. One mercenary remained, waiting with his sword raised for attack.

Voices from the gatehouse drew Ciannait’s attention. Some of the mercenaries returned, but one stopped them from interfering. She couldn’t see his face but sensed his honor.

Moira’s grip tightened and drew Ciannait’s concentration back to her father. She peeled her mother’s fingers from her arm, then kept hold of her hand. Ciannait grasped her dagger tightly in the other; she tried to pull Moira back toward the postern before anyone saw them.

Don’t cause him to lose his edge, her mother muttered, but scooted behind a pile of rock to hide.

Feeling more helpless than before, Ciannait watched in terror as the raider and her father battled. Her cheeks burned with tears as her life shattered around her. Their swords clashed and clanged loudly, the noise almost deafening. We must try to stop this battle!

Nay! Remember the threefold law! Moira’s grip tightened, then released. She pulled her hand back to her chest and closed her eyes. Whatever you send out will return to you three times three; better or worse it matters not.

Ciannait clutched at the front of her tunic as she saw her father’s lips moving. They spoke, and she cocked her head to listen. Father knows him.

‘Tis possible. Tears slipped down Moira’s face, her bottom lip swollen from biting.

Ciannait burned the man’s face into her memory as the battle continued. Suddenly the mercenary feigned with his sword. Tiernan moved to block the thrust, and when his blade lowered, the other’s drove deep into his chest. Blood spattered on the murderer’s face; he gaped in amazement.

As the man jerked his sword from Tiernan’s chest, Tiernan pitched forward into a pool of his own blood. The mercenary turned to run, but paused to glance over his shoulder before dashing away.

Noooo! Ciannait held her mother tightly, but Moira broke free and ran across the yard, edging around the bodies to collapse at Tiernan’s side. She lifted her husband’s head into her lap; Tiernan opened his eyes.

Witnessed this – sad eyes – I’m honored – kept your word, he coughed and wheezed, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth onto Moira’s shift. Keep her safe – teach her. He blinked; his eyes stayed closed for too long.

Ciannait knelt near her father and clasped her hand over his. She was blinded by her tears; she bit her lip to control the sobs. He tipped his head back, opened his eyes and blinked again to focus. Protect your mother – follow our forebears – this sword – for your sons – preserve it – be true.

She took the sword from his cold hand, stared at it and remembered. He’d always told her never to give up without a fight. She returned her gaze to his. Father, I vow to see you avenged.

Tiernan smiled, then turned his head roughly and gazed up at Moira. Kiss me. She bent low, brushing her lips softly across his, and when she straightened, his head lolled to the side, eyes still open, staring at the cloud- scudded sky.

CHAPTER 2

Danu, no! Get me the yarrow from today! Moira looked up at Ciannait, then gulped hard and coughed as the raw, primitive grief overwhelmed her. But he no longer bled. He no longer spoke. He no longer hurt.

Hot tears slipped down Moira’s cheeks to mingle with the blood as she sprawled across his body, her shoulders heaving and quaking with every sob.

Ciannait stood staring at her parents, their love so strong was now cleaved in two by the violence of a raider’s sword. Her heart turned as cold as the burren stones. She’d never rest until her goal was achieved. Revenge! Until the day she avenged this loss, she’d think of nothing else. From this day on, she knew her heart was dead. I’m never to love.

She turned away, no longer able to listen to her mother’s caoine, the mournful grieving wails of death. Clamped lips imprisoned her sobs as an angry shadow swept across her. She plowed beyond the bailey toward what was left of the smiths. After fashioning a pallet of timbers for her father, Ciannait started a funeral pyre.

Moira pushed herself to stand. She had to move, had to live, had to go on. Holding hands, the women circled the fire doiseil three times, as the sun passes. The flames blazed like golden spears in the half-light as the full moon rose over the moon-silver limestone to meld with the darkness.

This fire is lit for our passing clan to lead their way to the summer land. Mother, Goddesses one and all, we feel you here as we have called. Rhiannon, our pulse of the earth, from the North you carry – strength of stones and stag of faerie; Morrigan, with your magick wind, from the East you bring – for our clan the eagle’s wing; Edain, kindle our funeral fire, from the South you share - your fiery dragon out of his lair; Sinnin, bring water of love, from the west you know - their path you will have to show. You will lead them through Cailleach’s Cauldren, and light their way to Tir na nÓg, the land of forever young – the land of death. We beg you Cerridwyn, mother of all, to guide our pathway, lest we fall. Ancestors join us; our ring expands; come sit beside us; let us join hands. Winging on high, oh spirits soar; find you way through the open door. This is our wish for you to see; as we say it, so mote it be.

In silence they sat staring into the fire, hypnotized by it. They embraced before dragging Tiernan’s pallet to a cavern behind the fort – the crypt of his ancestors. Wrapping his body in cloths of blue and white, they placed him far in the back of the crypt on the dolmen designated for him.

Ciannait helped her mother back to the front of the cavern; to an area used for storage. Moira collapsed to the floor, exhausted and shivering in shock. Ciannait built up a fire to keep the chill at bay and sat next to her mother. She found blankets and furs stuffed into the alcoves, and covered her mother with them to keep her warm. Rubbing her trembling hands along Moira’s back, she tried to help her relax.

When Moira’s breathing eased, Ciannait grabbed a rush torch and slipped again to the rear of the dark, humid crypt near her father. She placed the torch in the wall sconce and knelt beside him, sobbing her own quiet farewells, rocking back and forth. When she closed her eyes, she could still hear the sounds of battle ringing in her head. Suddenly she jerked and her eyes snapped open. The din of battle had been replaced by a voice – as if someone called her name. Turning around, squinting into the half-light, she could see no one – she was alone– but the eerie feeling lingered.

Ciannait stood slowly, staring into the dimly lit alcoves cut into the stone eons ago. She backed toward the wall sconce and grasped the torch, holding it in front of her.

Who’s there? There was no answer.

Ciannait could still sense the presence. She sighed, shaking her head, thinking herself in shock like her mother, or crazy. She turned to leave, holding the torch in front of her as she made her way toward the front of the cavern. She started and turned each time she felt the presence close in. Seeing a wide gap in the stone, she relaxed, but her mother wasn’t there; the fire was a cold pile of ash. Wrong opening!

She jumped and turned when she felt icy fingers run up her arm. They pulled her across the chamber. Then she spotted something shining in the rush-light, sitting in a cleft in the wall of stone. Shaking off her fear, she shifted closer for a better look, brushed the dirt and cobwebs away from the front of the small alcove, reached in, and pulled out an amulet. The milky white stone glowed in the shards of light as she held it up, dangling in front of her. It had a warmth of its own, and a blue flash shimmered across the surface of the silver-rimmed jewel. It was safe, ‘twas from her ancestors, she could feel it. She pulled the leather thong over her head and around her neck, and tucked the amulet under her tunic.

Thank you.

She felt instant relief, and overwhelming joy filled her. Moving back through the tunnels, Ciannait immediately found her way to the front of the cavern. She curled up beside her mother to sleep, the amulet clasped in her hand.

Ciannait awoke to noises from outside. Pushing up on her elbow, she glanced toward her mother. Moira’s eyes were open; she stared blankly at the ceiling of the cave. Did you hear that?

Turning her head, Moira looked at Ciannait, anger now smoldering in her eyes. Horses! I’ve run more than I care to! I won’t run anymore! ‘Twas my home they invaded!

Ciannait had never seen this kind of fury in her mother.

Moira’s face contorted into a sneer as she pulled her sword out of one of the alcoves, the blade covered with runes. My father’s sword, and his before him. ‘Tis old, but sharp enough to cut a man down. She gripped the weapon, lifting it high as she left the crypt to stand, legs apart, ready to fight. Ciannait smiled. She looks every bit the warrior I’ve heard about in minstrels’ tales, those about the escapades of the Lady Moira of Innis. She stood beside her mother, holding her father’s sword in front of her, awaiting the up-coming battle.

The amulet on her chest warmed and tingled as the thunder of hooves grew louder. Ciannait sensed their closeness before she saw them, the sounds deafening. Moira dropped her sword, and ran toward the horseman who shimmered into view followed by his men. Eoghan!

Hurry! We need to get out of here.

Lorcan shoved through the men who’d returned to watch the final battle; he helped his father onto the stallion. Looks like he got in a few good blows before the end. Angus turned his steed and started forward.

They traveled far into the woods before Lorcan raised his arm. Halt! Looking across at his father, Lorcan placed his hand on the injured arm. That needs binding.

Angus glared at his son and jerked his arm away, then grimaced. ‘Tis fine! Let’s get home, and the women will take care of it. His face was ashen. Lorcan had become accustomed to seeing the same color on the battlefield, but not on his father. Angus shouted an oath when his horse lunged.

Lorcan led them, using the silence to think as the horses galloped around the lead-colored burren rock toward home. I’ve been a king’s man for nigh on ten years. I’ve known raids were part of the game clansmen played, but the king never got involved. Why now?

The king had sent him to investigate recent disturbances in the burren. Does the king know of Father’s involvement? Lorcan thought the raiding had stopped years ago; what had induced his father to start again? He’d not had time to speak to his father before they were on the road. I’ll remedy that as soon as we’re home.

Lorcan pulled the back of his hand across his brow. Sweat trickled in streams down his forehead and stung his eyes. He brushed his horse alone in the stable as memories flooded back to him. He clenched his fists as his need for physical exertion abated. Lorcan mulled over the day’s events. So many lives taken needlessly!

This hadn’t been a normal raid, if any could be considered normal – in raids, goods were taken and homes were plundered. Nobody won and families were torn apart. Lives were lost for the ones who resisted, and inheritances were lost for the children. And worse, honor was lost for the homeless clans. He’d learned the value of honor during those first raids with his father.

As a lad he’d been told to be silent, not to question, but he wasn’t a child anymore. Lorcan thought his father hated the raids as much as he did. He leaned his forehead against the flank of his steed as tears welled up in his eyes and another