Generations E-Book

John Reinhard Dizon

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Based on the life of West Texas pioneer J.D. "Big John" Sanders, Generations is a celebration of Irish heritage, a story of indomitable spirit and unfailing vision, and of relentless pursuit of the American dream.

After a whirlwind romance with the formidable Nora Brooks, Big John forges a cattle town in the rugged West Texas frontier during World War I. Thirty years later, Marion Kidd Sanders journeys to New York in pursuit of fame and fortune — and brings the family name to new heights.

A historical family saga that spans a millennia, Generations takes you deep into the lives of one family, from their beginnings in medieval Ireland, through to Boston, Texas and modern-day New York.

Leseprobe

Generations

John Reinhard Dizon

Copyright (C) 2014 John Reinhard Dizon

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To Mom with love and thanks for all the wonderful memories… and to cousin Ann whose essay inspired the saga.

Part I – Jonathan

Chapter 1

The young man awoke to what, up to then, would be the most terrible day of his life. He stared sightlessly at the ceiling for a long time before finally rising to wash himself with the cold water in the basin on the table, which he prepared just before bedtime, as was his custom. He dressed slowly, listening to the muted morning sounds emanating from the kitchen area of the room, realizing that little had changed as the household prepared for the trauma awaiting them.

He came out of his sleeping corner and joined his cousin Aileen by the fireplace. She fetched him a beer, watered down a bit in deference to his age but packed with nutrients. While not thirsty, he drank it down, knowing he would need its strength.

“He's asked for you.” Misty-eyed, Aileen managed softly.

He nodded. Setting his wooden cup down on the table, he moved towards the rope bed where his grandfather lay.

“Jonathan,” the old man called weakly. “Is that you?”

“Yes, Grandda.” Jonathan came over to the bed and sat down on the small stool next to it. He was struck by the frailty of the man, who had been considered one of the strongest in Armagh many years ago. The consumption had taken everything out of him, and left only a shell of a man waiting only to end his trial and meet his Maker.

“It's about that time, lad,” he reached out and held his grandson's hand firmly. “I just want you to know what a wonderful grandson you've been to me. When I lost your Da after my wife Colleen died, I thought my world had come to an end. You and your cousin Aileen have brought all my blessings back to me, and more.”

“You're more than a blessing to us, Grandda.” A tear trickled down Jonathan's cheek. “You've been as a father to me, always have, and always will.”

“Never forget who you are and who you Da was, and what kind of men he came from.” Brennus stared intently at him. “My brother Jonathan, who you were named after, fell in battle in 982 against the forces of Mael Sechnaill alongside Brian Boru and that grand army. His sacrifice, along with those of so many others, has preserved our Celtic traditions to this very day. Son, don't ever forget who you are, who your people are, and where we came from. We are a warrior clan, proud defenders of our land against the Romans before the Vikings. Those usurpers from the South are conspiring to give our country away to the Vikings, the Scots, the Britons, and every other foreign horde with the gold to buy a bogland. Always stand alongside your fellow Celts, Jonathan, in all things and by all means. Never surrender, ever. In the end, all you have is your God, your race and your nation. 'Tis all I take with me, my boy, my dear, dear boy.”

“And you leave so much behind, my dear Grandda,” Jonathan managed as he watched the life fading in the old man's eyes.

Brennus held on until nightfall, at which time Aileen notified the Church, whose laymen came to retrieve his body. The cousins comforted each other until late that evening, when Aileen returned to her home and left Jonathan alone at the house for the first time since he came to live with Brennus as a ween.

The year 1014 had just begun. Jonathan had been brought to his Grandda's by his relatives at the beginning of the new century when he was just six years old. His father Liam died of pneumonia during a harsh winter, and his grandda was greatly saddened but resolved to bring up his grandson just as Liam. His grandma Colleen had died of typhus while working in the South a couple of years before, and the two of them were left alone together with Aileen visiting daily to help with cooking and tidying. Jonathan learned to read and write at the local schoolhouse, which was run by the Church, and spent most of his spare time learning the family's woodworking trade under the tutelage of his Grandda.

His great passion was for hurley and he played the game almost daily with his best friends David, Ian and Harold, rain or shine, regardless of time of year. He and David would often captain their teams against brothers Ian and Harold, and they would recruit classmates from school to join their games after classes. When they were challenged by teams from neighboring villages, they would join forces and often give the opposition a good hiding before going back to playing among themselves. They had a fierce reputation, and even the menfolk at the public house would brag of their exploits when the boys came home victorious at the end of game days.

Therefore, it was that Shalane Mac Gregor came by the Church a couple of days after Brennus' funeral calling for Jonathan, who was nowhere to be found.

“He's off playing that silly game of his, to be sure,” Brother Mark O'Connell was at the woodshed when Shalane arrived. “You'd think there was little else to do around town for a lad of his age. I'm sure you might be able to talk some sense into him, now he's on his own without his Grandda to fend for him. He'll have to come to a mind soon, whether to speak for you or to come into the priesthood. Y'know, he's the finest woodworker I've seen in this town, and I've been here for thirty years. He'd make a good wage if he decided to raise a family and take his Grandda's shop over. Of course, it'd be your task to keep him out of the Troubles. I tell him he'd be far safer as a man of the cloth in this day and age, but it's just my opinion, mind you.”

“He really hasn't spoken much about his plans,” Shalane admitted. She was a beautiful red haired girl with emerald eyes, ivory skin, a slim figure, and a generous bosom. “Things have changed in his life so quickly with his Grandda's passing. Here he was, an apprentice woodworker keeping up with his studies, playing hurley with his friends, and now suddenly in the world all alone having to decide what to do with his life. It seems unfair, but nothing is in this day, is it?”

“Perhaps not,” Brother Mark agreed. “Yet he's not really alone, is he? After all, he's got his cousin Aileen, that saint of a girl, tending to that home all these years as if was her own. And, of course, he's got you. Plus those hurley boys do stand by him, don't they? Besides, when all is said and done, he'll always have the Church. It will be here long after all of us have joined our brother Brennus in the bosom of our Lord.”

“Aye, and isn't that him on his way?” Her face brightened as she looked out the doorway and saw Jonathan along the cobbled path to the shed with his hurley stick in hand. They waved to each other and soon the three of them exchanged greetings, stepping out into the cool Irish breeze.

“And it was a fine game we had today,” Jonathan grinned as they asked how his afternoon had gone. “David and I played as the Cuchulainns and the Otises played as the Mac Cumhails. It was a fine battle of the warrior bands! We bested them twenty points to thirteen. Ah, and did they raise a holler, but we showed them once again.”

“Well, your lady's been awaiting,” Brother Mark chided him. “As heir apparent of the Sanders clan, we assumed you've been about getting your affairs in order.”

“There hasn't been much to make of them.” Jonathan shrugged his broad shoulders. He was a tall young man with a wiry build, his long black hair offset by his pale skin and cobalt eyes. “I've rounded up my Grandda's tools and hope our deal with the Church stays good.”

“And who would we get in your stead?” Brother Mark patted him on the back. “The Sanders have always been the best at their craft–still are and most likely will be. Rest up, lad, I've put the finishing touches on the new confessional this morning. We'll be on the repairs in the sacristy before dawn on Saturday, and I'll be waiting for ye.”

Jonathan slung his caman over his shoulder, pleased at how well his hurley stick has served him that day. He and Shalane sauntered down the road to her shanty along the southern outskirts of town. It was their custom for her to come by the Church at the end of the afternoon during the week and meet him, so he could escort her home before dark. She worked for Lord Mac Manus at his manor on the northern end as a maid, and was free on Sundays to join Jonathan for Mass and a picnic afterwards.

“How was your day today, love?” he asked, admiring her profile as they walked along.

“Same as usual.” She pursed her lips.

“You don't seem so.”

“You know all the craic going about the King's visit coming up,” she replied quietly. “It doesn't seem like everyone's looking forward to it as they should be. All that gossip, not much of it good.”

“See who you're working for, love,” Jonathan smiled at her. “Lord Roderick is hardly going to be singing the King's praises, not after that last visit five years ago. They proclaimed King Brian as lord over the Gaels of Scotland among others, which I'm sure they still do not appreciate. I'm not fond of politics myself, not as my Grandda was. Yet it must be said that the King has done more to unite our nation than any other one can remember.”

When Mathgamain mac Lorcain, the King of Munster, was killed by Viking forces in 976, his brother Brian Boru took command of the realm. Brian had a vision quest to end the tribal wars in Ireland that had become exacerbated by interference from the Vikings, Scots and Britons. Brian raised an army of patriots of Celtic descent for the purpose of ridding the land of foreign influence and vanquishing rival clans who sought to dominate Ireland with the aid of alien forces. Jonathan's granduncle was among those who fell in one of the many battles to free the nation from its oppressors. Brennus always reminded both his son and grandson of the sacrifices men would make to defend their land, liberty, and freedom. Jonathan had no wish to join the military in his nation's defense, but would not back down if called.

“I'm afraid of all the discussions going on at the manor,” Shalane admitted. “You know the only reason they hired me was because of my last name. They're still suspicious of me because my parents are Catholic. They've always took care not to discuss religion or politics around me, and now it seems they are speaking more and more in secret when I'm around. Jon, I'm terrified that they're plotting against the King!”

The Viking Invasion of 795 heralded the end of the golden age of Christian Ireland as the Norsemen ransacked and pillages their way across Scotland and Ireland. Although the Irish kings had repelled the barbaric hordes over the decades, there were still numerous regions still under Viking control by way of their settlements across the land. Dublin was just one of the major Irish cities still considered to be a Viking stronghold, as were large areas throughout Scotland. Many of the Scottish lords maintained relationships with the Vikings for military advantage, as did their Irish counterparts

“You shouldn't suppose such a thing if you're not certain it is true,” he said gently. “You know, there's so much spite and backbiting going about these days, you never know who'll say what against who, just to avenge an affront.”

“I'm not sure Lord Roderick cares anymore. I think he's keeping me out of it just to protect me. I'm sure that if he knew I was onto any insurgency on his part, he'd run me off so as not to have me involved.”

“He's got your best interests at heart, at least.”

“It wouldn't be so. If I lost my job, all my Ma would have is her wage as a washerwoman. It would be hard for us to make ends meet.”

“You know I'd never let that happen. I'll always take care of you.”

“I couldn't allow it; we wouldn't have charity, not even from a friend.”

“Then we'd have to stand before the priest, so I'd be obligated.”

“I wouldn't do so unless you asked.”

“You know I will, girl,” he stopped and took her in his arms. “There'll never be anyone but you.”

They kissed tenderly but released one another before their passions got the best of them. They were well schooled in the ways of the Church and knew the penalties for intimacy outside wedlock.

“I want to get everything in order before we make plans,” he told her as they resumed walking. “My Grandda's death was so sudden. I want to rest assured that the Bishop continues to honor my agreement with the Church. I'm sure Brother Mark will stand for me but I want no surprises. Once I'm reassured of steady income, we'll save for a grand wedding.”

“Do you think Colleen would be my maid of honor?” She grew cheerful. “And would you ask David to stand as your best man? Oh, I would be so delighted!”

“I'll be the happiest man in all of Ireland,” he beamed as he took her hand. “And you'll be the prettiest bride, to be sure.”

They reached her shanty at length, and he kissed her hand as usual in case her Ma was peeking from behind the curtains at the window.

“Goodbye, love,” he bade her farewell. “Until tomorrow.”

He had gone about a kilometer on the way back when he heard running feet and rustling in the bushes ahead of him. He braced himself and readied his caman, prepared to thrash any hooligans who might seek to block his path.

“Jonathan,” David hailed him, with the Otis brothers at his side. Jon knew the road well enough to surmise that they had run the entire path at full speed from the village, winded as they were.

“Haven't you fellows had enough exercise today?” he half-heartedly mocked them.

“Men from the public house sent for us,” Ian Otis panted. “They've asked us to carry swords for the King. And they want to see you.”

Jonathan's heart sank as it did on the day his Grandda died. He thought of what the news would do to Shalane after the joy they shared in making wedding plans. He thought of his Grandda and his final wishes that Jonathan took a stand for his country. What he realized was that he could not step away from his friends, no matter what the cost.

“All right, then, let's go.”

Jonathan joined them as they trudged back towards town, making their way along the most perilous journey of their lives.

Chapter 2

They arrived at O'Beirne's public house just before sunset, seeing the usual gathering of townsfolk outside enjoying fellowship before supper. The men would go inside, converse over tankards of beer or mead at the bar while the women sat at the table, and discuss the goings-on of the day, leaving the children free to romp around in the outer garden.

“Mike wants to see you,” James Delaney came out to meet them at the entrance. “He'll be out back in the garden. I'll walk you around.”

They dutifully followed him around the spacious stone building to the cobblestoned arcade where the innkeeper was watering the flowerbeds planted around the picnic area. Michael O'Beirne was a man of respect who had raised a sword in defense of his faith and his country in many a battle. He finally retired to raise a family and start a business, but he was still consulted as a village elder in financial, personal, and military matters.

“They're raising a militia in support of the King to assist in his upcoming campaign,” Michael advised them tersely as he plucked the occasional weed sprouting between the bouquets. “They're in need of young men who can run messages and carry weapons. Are you willing to help?”

“I've plans to get married,” Jonathan blurted, to the astonishment of his friends.

“Well, you'd best get on with it as soon as possible,” Michael retorted. “You'd want to consummate the relationship before anything happens to you, if you know what I mean.”

“How much time do I have?” Jonathan wondered.

“The King will be in town in a fortnight, mustering his supporters. Those who will fight for God and country will have to declare themselves on that day.”

“We'll be ready.” Jonathan looked to the others, who nodded in assent.

“So you're asking Shalane,” Ian ribbed him as they headed back to town. “And what makes you think she'll have you?”

“I think she's of a mind to have the best hurley player in Armagh,” he grinned.

“Then she'll have a hard choice between Ian and I,” Harold guffawed. Though he was the younger and smaller of the brothers, he made up for it with his ruthless aggression.

“She told me she was in love,” Jonathan smirked. “She didn't say she was desperate.”

They traded jokes and insults, sang rowdy songs, cursing and spitting, as young men their age were wont to do. They made their way back to their shanties along the outskirts of Armagh, their beloved city centered along the cathedral where St. Patrick once presided. It had been laid to waste by Viking invaders decades ago and had finally been restored by the villagers after many years of hard work. There was still a spirit of resentment towards the Norsemen, and many Irishmen seethed over the fact that much of South Ireland was still under Viking rule.

“Aye, it'll be a great day when the king arrives and we trade these hurley sticks in for broadswords!” Ian brandished his stick defiantly. “Let's hope we're as good on the field of honor as we are on the hurley court!”

They all cheered in unison before the brothers departed for their homes, Jonathan and David walking the rest of the way to their abodes.

“You're a lucky man, Jono,” David called him by the pet name that only he and Aileen were allowed to use. “You've got the most beautiful girl in Ulster, and that nobody can deny. With your Grandda passing on, you'll need someone to share your home with. The Lord doth taketh away, but sure if He doesn't give straightaway.”

“I'll be making arrangements with Brother Mark for the ceremony.” Jonathan was elated. “I'd want you as my best man, and Aileen as the maid of honor, and the Otises as witnesses.”

“That's as it should be, all your closest friends besides you on the best day of your life.” David was a tall, lanky young man with curly black hair and doe-like brown eyes. He and Jonathan had been friends since they could remember and loved each other like brothers.

Jonathan trudged up the walk to the thick wooden front door where the aroma of stew greeted him. The house was built almost a century ago by his great-grandfather, assisted by neighbors shortly after the militia repelled a Viking horde that had pillaged Armagh. They had helped him build a home there out of gratitude and it stood there ever since. It was made of stone and mortar with a thatched roof that had been gradually replaced by wooden beams over time. The structure was centered round the squat fireplace. The chimney was the stanchion of the building, and provided both warmth and atmosphere throughout the years.

“How now, Aileen,” Jonathan greeted her as she prepared the table for dinner in the spacious room. She was a tall, slim girl with pale skin, blue eyes, and a shock of red hair that she often brushed away from over her eyes. “I just can't tell you how much I appreciate you being here, keeping things as though nothing's changed.”

“Well, it hasn't.” She ladled stew from the kettle on the hearth into a heavy bowl. “There's just one less plate on the table, rest his soul.”

“I've always wondered how your Mum is so willing to do without your help in the late afternoon, though I never dared ask,” he took a seat at the right side of the table as always.

“My Mum's kitchen is her kitchen, and she is queen of her home.” She poured water from a pitcher into a cup for him. “She does not take kindly to anyone misplacing her things or undoing what she's set. Whatever I do, she sees as hindrance.”

“Feel free to disrupt here as much as you like,” he grinned before Aileen smacked him across the back of the head with her dishrag.

“Woman's work is never done,” she chimed as she set his plate, cup, utensils, and napkin before him with a slice of freshly baked bread and a dollop of butter. “Feeding the chickens, watering and weeding the garden, and washing the dishes. Then coming here to tend to the bachelors. Such is life without a husband, and when one is found the routine refreshes itself.”

“I hope my dear Shalane doesn't see married life as quite so humdrum,” he began to dig eagerly into his plate.

“If she's forced to wait long enough, she'll most likely not have the energy or spirit to care a whit.”

“She won't have to wait at all. I'm going to ask for her hand this weekend, and have you and my hurley friends stand for us at the ceremony.”

“Oh, Jonathan, how wonderful.” She patted his shoulders before sitting across from him. “She's a lovely girl; I know you'll both be very happy.”

“Things have changed so quickly in my life, I feel like I'm barely staying afloat.” He ran his fingers through his thick mane. “First Grandda dies, and then I'm faced with inheriting his home and his business. To top it off, they've asked that we fight for the King in defending the land against the Vikings and the insurrectionists. It's why I've decided to marry Shalane, in case I'm captured or killed, she'll have this home and the business to barter.”

“Oh, Jonathan, don't get involved in that mess,” Aileen pleaded. “Our people have been fighting since the beginning of time. If there's no one else to fight, they fight each other. Having the Vikings ashore and the Scots down from the north only makes it more convenient. You shan't go risking your life just to participate in another one of these tribal wars.”

“This is different.” Jonathan was resolute. “Brian Boru wants to unite the nation and end all the uprisings and rebellions across the country. That's what the whole problem is, all these land barons trying to take each others' property. If they aren't strong enough to take what they want, they hire foreigners to come in and steal it for them. Next, they sit and wonder why the foreigners aren't willing to hand over what they have stolen. Brian Boru will vanquish the rebels and drive the invaders from our land. It's a cause well worth fighting for.”

“Jonathan, you've got a beautiful girl about to give you her hand, a good trade and a strong business connection,” she reasoned. “You don't need this in your life right now. You can take some of your earnings and invest in the King's crusade, but to take part in it yourself is madness. Is your love for Shalane so shallow that you would leave her a widow at so young an age?”

“Girl, I swore to Grandda on his deathbed that I would take a stand for our nation in its time of need!” Jonathan grew irritated. “I won't stand by and watch the Vikings join with the robber barons to turn this country into a nation of foreigners!”

“Your own Da is buried on that hill on the countryside after fighting the same fight for that same man for the same cause!” Aileen retorted angrily. “Did they not tell him the same story when he enlisted, that it would be the war to end all wars? There'll never be an end to the fighting, but it's always the end for those who fall in battle!”

“You really should keep my Da out of this,” he insisted. “It was a different fight in a different time. Mael Sechnaill and the Southern Ui Neill had joined forces with the Vikings to take over our land but was defeated by Brian Boru. Now it's Mael Morda mac Murchada and his Leinster kingdom raising an army of conscripts and foreigners for the exact same purpose. If we stand aside and allow these usurpers to come in and take control of Ireland, we'll become strangers in our own home. How can you possibly think I can shirk my duty as a Celt and an Irishman?”

“You're not listening to me and I'm not listening to you!” she snapped, whisking her shawl from the back of her chair as she headed for the door. “You can do your own dishes tonight; I'll be back for the wash when you're gone to work tomorrow!”

“I can take care of it myself if it's too much bother,” he shot back.

“I wouldn't desecrate your Grandda's memory by letting his house go to seed,” she replied, closing the door firmly behind her.

He picked at his food with a guilty conscience, and finally set it aside. Pulling on a heavier tunic, he decided to go up to the hill to visit his father's grave. He often went there to compose his thoughts and commune with his father's spirit in times of trouble. Although baptized a Catholic, he was steeped in the traditions of the Celts and shared a strong kinship with those who worshipped the spirits of nature. He would never summon demons or offer them sacrifice, but he could feel the presence of the spirits along the countryside and enjoyed their company at times.

The sky was overcast and the smell of rain was in the air as was common during that time of year. He decided to trot along the path leading out of town to the hillside. It was an old saying that physical ability was like most other skills: if you did not use it you could lose it. He knew that most of the older men, once married, grew fond of food and relaxation but soon found themselves unable to run and jump as they used to. He promised himself he would not let that happen. Even if David and the Otises married and moved away, he would continue to take his hurley stick onto the field on his lonesome and keep himself in playing shape.

Eventually he came to the hillside and trudged up the well-worn path to the patch of crosses and grave markers on its crest. Finding it, he sat down next to it, his fingers tracing his father's name inscribed on the stone.

“Ah, Father,” Jonathan spoke into the wind, looking out at the skyline of Armagh as he was wont to do, imagining his Da with the Lord together in the clouds. “How much different it was with your own Da here to advise me in your stead. Now I am all alone, praying that our Heavenly Father will send His wisdom through your spirit to your only son. It was but yesterday that I was but a lad chasing a hurley ball across the field after school before heading home to supper with your Da. Now I stand in charge of his home and his business, preparing to take on a wife and start a family. Yet I have to deal with the prospect of war and possibly being laid to rest right here alongside you.”

“What manner of man is this Brian Boru, that he stands in defense of Ireland decade after decade against all odds, and manages to prevail?” he wondered as he contemplated the steeple of the cathedral which towered over the roofs of the city. “Who is he that can come here and rally the brave men around him, asking them to forsake all to defend a kingdom representing all we hold dear? And how is it that he endures and prospers after so many battles while so many have fallen before him? Does he hide behind the shields of others or is he so great that none can topple him?”

“How I wish you were here to meet my darling Shalane, the keeper of my heart.” He reached down and picked a tiny shamrock from the foot of the gravestone. “I have the sketches of my Mum that were drawn in her youth, and I am so proud that my girl is just as fair as the one that married my own Da. I know she'll be a wonderful Ma to your grandchildren and a comfort and solace to me in my old age.”

“But why is it that I be asked to risk everything in the face of the combat ahead?” He clenched his teeth, slamming his fist against the oak tree spreading its branches over the grave. “It's war that represents the worst of our country, coming in like a thief to take the best of everything we have. It took you away from me before I was old enough to know why. Now it returns just as I'm distracted by travail in consolidating all I hold dear after Grandda's death. How can I take leave of all my responsibilities, made all the worse in knowing that all may go to waste if I never do come back?”

He stared balefully out at the town before him for a long time until, at once, there was a whisper in the breeze as it whistled by. It seemed as if his father's voice spoke one soft word: “Persevere.”

“I thought I'd find you up here.”

Jonathan whirled at the sound of David's voice as his best friend appeared at the top of the hill in the clearing passed the footpath. David often came by after supper to spend the early evening with Jonathan, and they would take long hikes together before sunset sharing their hopes and dreams.

“I came across Aileen on the path towards your house,” he mentioned. “I take it you had words.”

“She's not at all happy about us taking up arms alongside the King,” Jonathan revealed as he fell into step alongside David on the way back down the hill. “I said a prayer at my Da's grave and I believe he would have wanted me to see my way though rather than back down from the challenge.”

“My Ma's not happy about my going either,” David admitted. “She thinks the fighting should be left to the brawlers at the public house, the shepherds, and the like. She doesn't think we'll have the stomach for it, and we'll come back distracted after having been forced to kill other men.”

“I've given it quite a bit of thought,” Jonathan mused. “I'm not sure I would have a major problem defending myself against a brute determined to kill me.”

“There's something else,” David was somber, “about the wedding. I spoke to my Da about it and he mentioned that it could be a whole month before it could be approved.”

“What?”

“He told me that he and my Ma had planned to marry a week before Easter so that they could visit relatives who were vacationing in Dundalk many years ago. It turned out that the pastor had to get approval from the Archbishop, who registers newlyweds with the Vatican in Rome. The whole process takes about a month. Apparently they do so to avoid mixed marriages or allowing Catholics in good standing to be joined with heretics or the excommunicated.”

“I can't wait that long. The King is arriving in a fortnight. They may send us off forthwith. What am I going to do?”

“You know, I spoke to my sister about it, and she mentioned the old wise woman on the west road about a mile from town. She specializes in herbs and potions, but she also knows all the ancient Celtic rituals and traditions. My sister says it may be better to be joined in matrimony lest, as you've said, something happens in battle. The Church would take all you leave behind and leave poor Shalane with nothing.”

“Of course,” Jonathan's eyes brightened. “I'm sure at least a fourth of all the wedded couples in Armagh were married in Celtic ceremonies, just as many are christened. If you would come out and show me where the wise woman lives, we can arrange a ceremony before we go off to war. Sure, and I'll have to make sure it's fine with Shalane.”

“Your other choice would be to have it done by at the manor of the Scottish lord where she works, but you might run a risk if it's done by the presbytery.”

“Not with the sentiment against the Scots running high as it is. They'd surely speak of us as traitors. The old woman is best. Let's go out there now before it gets dark.”

The friends trotted down the hill along the west road to her shanty, blissfully unaware of the chain of events it would trigger thereafter.

Chapter 3

“You are the blood of my blood, and bone of my bone,” Jonathan recited the Celtic vow. “I give you my body, that we two might be one. I give you my spirit, 'til our life shall be done. You cannot possess me for I belong to myself; but while we both wish it; I give you that which is mine to give. You cannot command me, for I am a free person; but I shall serve you in those ways you require, and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand.”

Jonathan and David had gone out to the wise woman's shanty on the west road the week before and had arranged the ceremony for this Saturday evening during the full moon. She had insisted that it be held at midnight so that they might receive the fullest blessings of the spirits of the woodland.

“I vow you the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my wine,” Shalane gave the Celtic response. “From this day it shall only be your name I call in the night, and into your eyes I smile each morning. I shall be a shield for your back as you are for mine, and no grievous word shall be spoken of us. Our marriage is sacred and no stranger shall hear my grievance. Above and beyond, I will cherish and honor you through this life unto the next.”

Jonathan formally proposed to Shalane before explaining the ceremony situation in detail. She was somewhat taken aback but agreed that marrying him was the most important thing; having it done as a Celtic rite seemed to be a matter of necessity. It was only Aileen who reneged, refusing to take part in a pagan ritual. The Otises were eager to attend. They spent but little time indoors, the wise woman specifying that the ceremony would be performed under the moon and stars facing the east wind.

Shalane wore a lovely white gown and had her coppery locks plaited in braids draping over her shoulders, a wreath of flowers on her head. Jonathan wore his finest black robe and was dressed as neatly as his friends as if going to Sunday Mass. The old woman wore a clean gown, as dark as the night itself.

As the woman gestured, David produced a golden Claddagh ring which he handed to Jonathan.

“I take you my heart at the rising of the moon and the setting of the stars,” Jonathan said fervently as he gazed into her eyes. “To love and to honor through all that may come. Through all our lives together, in all our lives, may we be reborn that we may meet again and know, and love again and remember.”

Jonathan had gone to Shalane's mother and asked for her daughter's hand in marriage. The older woman was curt but did seem to like Jonathan and his easygoing manner. She gave him a short dissertation about the obligations of the married life and a short history of her early years with Shalane's father.

“Never forget, there will be many a time when it seems the only things you have in this world are each other,” she admonished him. “Don't ever let anything get in betwixt you, not your own children, your property, or your families. Your relationship is your truest possession.”

Jonathan promised that they would send her money each month but she would hear none of it. She said she would sell their shanty and return to Dundalk to live with relatives, where the two of them would be forever welcome.

“May God be with you and bless you, may you see your children's children. May you be poor in misfortune and rich in blessing,” the wise woman turned her palms towards the sky. “May you know nothing but happiness from this day forth. In the name of the Father of all Creation, I pronounce you man and wife.”

They rejoiced as they returned to Jonathan's house, and they drank a jug of wine outside before the newlyweds retired for the evening. Jonathan carried her across the threshold, as was the custom, and dropped her on the bed, slipping in beside her as they cuddled together. Making love came naturally to them and, after a long while, they exhausted themselves and slept in each others' arms.

It was a Friday night, and they were able to spend the weekend as newlyweds. She prepared meals for him and tended the house and garden while he tinkered about in the shed. They were visited during the day by Aileen, and in the evenings by David and the Otises. Despite the wonders of housekeeping as a married couple, there was nothing more important than bedtime when they were able to satisfy their greatest expectations. It was truly a magical time for them.

Jonathan arrived for work at the Church that Monday morning, and he and Brother Mark set to work on the sacristy as scheduled. They sanded the worn and weathered benches smooth, painstakingly cleaning the decorative carvings. It required tenacious focus and attention to detail, and the two men respected each others' abilities all the more as the project began, breathing new life into the venerated chamber.

“Well, then, have you made plans for the big day?” Brother Mark asked cheerily as they took a short break from their labors.

“Actually, we were planning to have it after I return from the field,” Jonathan replied cautiously. “We didn't want to wait that long, so we had a Celtic ceremony for the meantime.”

“A Celtic ceremony?” Brother Mark stared at him. “You mean you went into wedlock without the Church's blessing?”

“Half of the married couples in Ireland were joined together in Celtic ceremonies,” Jonathan insisted. “This I know as fact. Are you saying all those marriages are illegal?”

“Jonathan, do you know not what you have done?” the clergyman beseeched him painfully.

“I couldn't wait a whole month, not with the fighting about to start in a couple of weeks,” Jonathan insisted. “Consider all the things that could happen on the field to a man! Suppose I was injured or taken captive and there was no way of sending word? She could easily be misled to believe I was dead, and give her hand to another in her grief.”

“Jonathan, you've committed an act of heresy that is punishable by excommunication,” Brother Mark groaned, cupping his forehead as if in agony. “Pope Benedict has just been restored to power by King Henry of Germany and is ruling with an iron hand. The Saracens and the Normans are ravaging his lands, and he is acting as a man surrounded by traitors and assassins. Anyone who defies the ordinances of the Church is subject to excommunication, along with those who do not report such disloyalty. Word would get back to the Bishop, and he would convict me for suppressing information and protecting a heretic.”

“A heretic,” Jonathan said quietly. “For marrying the woman I love outside of the Church.”

“I don't make the rules, Jonathan. I have taken a vow to live my life according to them.”

“All right,” he sighed. “What happens next?”

“Obviously this will terminate our contract.” Brother Mark began fumbling with the knot on his heavy cloth apron. “I'll have to go on as best I can before finding someone else to take your place, and believe me it will not be easy.”

The full shock of what was happening finally hit Jonathan, but he showed no emotion as he unfastened his own leather apron and began retrieving his tools.

Jonathan looked Brother Mark in the eyes, and confirmed, “You are sworn to this life and you do as you must. I will always consider you a friend.”

“And I you, Jonathan,” Brother Mark replied. They embraced each other warmly. Jonathan asked for and received his blessing, then took his leave.

His mind raced a mile a minute on the long walk home, wondering what he would do to support himself and Shalane without his job at the Church. He knew he could drum up business in town, perhaps pay the town crier a few pence to advertise his availability, It would be an utter embarrassment for word to spread of his misfortune, but he knew the situation would pass in due time. Moreover, he was certain that there were more than a few older couples who had been married by Celtic ritual and would be fully sympathetic to his plight.

He had always questioned many of the Church's edicts, as had many of the townsfolk he knew throughout his life. Grandda had always admonished him never to discuss race, religion or politics in the public house, as these topics had led to some of the bloodiest brawls in its history. Nevertheless, there had been occasions when deep discussions between friends led to opinionated diatribes over the Church and their own personal belief systems. The Otis family had been traditionally Celtic but they came into the Church to benefit from its social resources, as had most Irishmen across the country. David was very Celtic but could recite the Church's creed better than anyone he knew. His Grandda, alternately, was a devout Catholic but knew more about the Celtic ways than most others in Armagh.

He finally reached home and put his tools away in the shed before entering the house. Shalane was busy tidying the house, cooing Celtic songs in her beautiful singing voice. She was surprised to see Jonathan home so early, at which he collapsed into his Grandda's wooden chair and told her all that had happened. She sat across from him on a bench and said nothing, remaining silent for a short while after he had finished.

“I've nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing to regret.” He was adamant. “Marrying you was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. It's as your own mother said, you're all I truly have in this world. The Church can deny me everything, but it can't take you away from me, now can it?”

“Nothing ever can,” she insisted. “I can go back to work for Lord Mac Manus. I told him all about you, and all he asked is if you were Catholic. Before I left, he said you sounded like a fine young man who was very lucky indeed, and wished us all the best. I'm sure he will be glad to have me back, and my wages will suit us fine until you secure another contract.”

She rose from her chair and came over to him, and he took her alabaster hand and pressed it against his cheek.

“I'm the most blessed man in all of Ireland,” he said before rising to his feet and taking her in his arms. “I'll pay a tuppence to the town crier and have him advertise my services. I won't have my wife lift a finger in another man's home as I live and breathe.”

“I don't know why I suddenly feel so tired, I suppose it's from frittering about the house all day,” she smiled mischievously. “Perhaps we should retire early and save our strength for a busy day tomorrow.”

“My darling Shalane,” he held her close, his blood running hotly through his veins. “You set me afire with your very touch.”

They held hands as they moved towards the rope bed, undressing each other before slipping between the covers and melting into each others' arms. They thrilled at the touch of one another's bodies and drank thirstily of the nectars of their love before falling into a blissful sleep.

Jonathan thought he was dreaming when he heard what sounded like distant thunder, only to waken to the sound of knocking at the door. Shalane's emerald eyes popped wide as she realized it was already twilight.

“It must be the fellows,” he whispered.

“Tell them I'm washing up and that you were napping,” she kissed him quickly before pulling the curtains around the bed which allowed some privacy. Jonathan pulled his clothes on and answered the door.

“How now, men,” Jonathan rubbed his eyes as he came to the door with a lit candle holder. “My lady's tidying up, and I fell asleep awaiting.”

“We thought perhaps you had retired early, as young couples have just as much right to as the old,” Ian Otis grinned saucily. “We were about to depart in respecting your privacy.”

“Singing bawdy songs at the public house again, were you?” Jonathan beckoned them inside. “Sure and you'll learn to control yourself once in the King's service.”

“I'm sure it'll be much harder for you when denied your privileges,” Ian ribbed him.

“I'll have your arse if Shalane hears you,” he hissed, poking his friend's shoulder.

“It would hardly be a fair trade,” Harold guffawed before being shoved at by Jonathan and David.

“Welcome, friends,” Shalane greeted them cheerily, dressed in a blue robe, her hair dripping wet as it draped over her shoulders. “Forgive my appearance, but I required a good scrubbing after crawling on hands and knees all over the garden this afternoon. I've yet to make my beloved his supper, and thereafter I'd be offended if you would not join us.”

“This fellow has bragged of the bewitching feasts you have placed before him, and we would be as fools not to sample some for ourselves,” Ian grinned. “Only we have come to fetch him for a meeting with Michael O'Beirne at the public house, so we can only pray that your invitation remains open for a next time in the very near future.”

“I won't be going, dear friends,” Jonathan lowered his eyes, and Shalane busied herself stoking the fires in the hearth as he told them all that had transpired that day.

“Damned fools that they are!” Ian bellowed after Jonathan finished his story. “I'd see that Pope at the end of a rope! It's all for one and one for all, and if they won't have you, none of us will fight either!”

“What does the Church have to do with the militia?' Shalane asked indignantly. “It isn't that I am not relieved in my soul that my husband is not being asked to risk his life, but rather that his reputation be placed in question beyond the provinces of the Papacy and its lackeys.”

“A woman after my own heart,” Harold laughed.

“The Church blesses the militia before it goes to war,” Jonathan said quietly. “The superstition is that a militia going into battle without the blessing is doomed to annihilation, and then to hell with the blood of its enemies on its hands. The Bishop will not bless the militia if one among them is called a heretic.”

“Well then, we four shall stand as heretics away from the lot of them,” Ian declared. “Let those soft-bellied turnip farmers go on their own against those monstrous Vikings of the south. They'll pray to their Blessed Virgin that we had been among their ranks as they're run back here like whipped curs with their tails between their legs.”

Ian was cut short by yet another knock on the door, and they all stared quizzically as to who would come calling at dark.

“Perhaps it is one who thinks this is the public house, with all the shouting,” Shalane teased them before answering the door. They were all surprised to see James Delaney standing in the threshold.

“Michael asked me to come and reassure that you were attending the rally.” He sounded apologetic. “It's very important, and he wanted to be sure you all were there.”

“I'll not…” Jonathan began, but Ian cut him off.

“We'll speak to Mike directly,” Ian insisted. “He's not as shallow as the rest, and would not to want to lose four for the price of one. Let us bargain to find a way to yet risk our lives for this foolhardy cause.”

“It's my duty, Shalane,” Jonathan hugged her before taking his leave. “I'll be back shortly.”

She stood at the window, watching with misty eyes as the young men set forth on the path to the most perilous events yet to follow.

Chapter 4

It was one of the most tumultuous events in the recent memory of the citizens of Armagh.

Crowds filled the streets, funneling towards the city square and on to the cathedral where the majestic procession ended. The people cheered and applauded as Brian Boru and his entourage ascended the steps to the church. Armed guards and militiamen surrounded it as the King arrived to attend Mass that Sunday morning. The Bishop himself arrived to celebrate the Mass. Afterwards the King and his men met with the churchfolk, the mob outside the church straining to hear as the he addressed the assembly inside the building.

“People of Armagh,” Boru's voice boomed across the hall. “Once again we have been called onto the field of battle as the warmongers both here and abroad have raised their swords to threaten the lives, liberty and the freedoms of Irishmen across our land. It has been thirty-two years since the specter of war overshadowed our land, time enough for our enemies to regroup and threaten our homes and our families anew. We are all distraught by the thought of sending our menfolk back into battle, but the alternatives are too dire to consider. Shall we become a nation of serfs, living under the fiefdom of tribes of robber barons? Shall we surrender our dream of a united Ireland and become as a European country, fearful of the sound of galloping hooves and the roar of two-legged beasts invading our properties to steal, kill, and destroy? Let the strongest and ablest among you step forth and join with us to repel these foreign hosts back into the sea, and trample these thieves and vandals among us back into the dust from whence they came!”

Thunderous cheers echoed throughout the area as one of Boru's chieftains directed them to the courtyard where they would be able to enlist. The townsfolk were elated by the King's speech and their discussions were all about patriotism as men encouraged one another to take a hand in the crusade. The youths offered to act as pages and messengers for the fighters, and the elderly gladly donated their services or funding for the cause.

“They said he'll see you at the Sullivan Inn,” Michael O'Beirne came over to where Jonathan and his friends had stood within earshot of the pub door during the rally. “I told him all about you and he bade that you visit.”

“Come on, fellows,” Jonathan beckoned his mates.

“Not them,” Michael said sternly. “Just you.”

Jonathan dutifully followed Mike to the two-story inn, which had an English aura about it with its stone and frame veneer enhanced by the tiled roof. The lawn was well-trimmed and a small garden provided a rustic ambiance to the entrance, which featured a cobbled pathway lined with shrubs. Outside, men wearing breastplates stood with crossbows, their eyes searching the area for signs of intruders. They dutifully nodded to Mike as he led Jonathan through the doorway.

They walked through the lobby where a polished wooden floor protected by a great woven rug gave way to a large meeting room at the rear of the grade level. Within Jonathan could see a large dais upon which stood a long table and a row of benches, presiding over a number of smaller tables and benches around the room. Stepping down from the dais to meet them was Brian Boru, as a half-dozen guards posted around the room watched carefully.

. “This is the young man I told you about, your Highness,” Michael made the introduction. “This is Jonathan Sanders, a capable lad who comes from a long line of the best woodworkers in Armagh. His hurley team is also a great source of pride to our city; they give us great delight in knowing no equal throughout the land.”

What struck Jonathan about Boru were his eyes, which bespoke of a wealth of wisdom and knowledge along with a world-weariness that had endured too much misery and deception. He also had a regal bearing like no other; had he been dressed in sackcloth and ashes, there would have been no question that this man was still the King of Ireland.

“Hurley,” the King remarked approvingly. Clad in an expensive purple cloak, red tunic, black trews, black boots, he walked up to them. His gray hair was long, draping over his shoulders, his whitened beard neatly trimmed. “An excellent sport which tests one's valor and endurance. I myself played as a young man back in the day, but was forced to put away the things of youth as the challenge of war came into my life. Do you play for the Church?”

“The Church is causing the problem for this young man that brings us before you, Sire,” Mike interjected, then explained Jonathan's predicament in detail.

“I myself, like so many others on this emerald isle, was a Celt before a Catholic,” Boru mused once Mike had finished. “Our people have always believed that the invisible things of this world are easily seen as a manifestation of the glory of He Who created all things. If, then, we enjoy a spiritual communion with the earth, wind, fire and water, and other living things, why is it the Catholics accuse us of consorting with demons? I could never understand such a thing.”

“Nor I, your Majesty,” Jonathan agreed.

“I would gladly take issue on a personal level over such a matter, but as King it is not my wish to engage in a battle with the Pope and risk losing a war against the invaders,” Boru pursed his lips. “Perhaps there is another way to approach this problem.”

“Your Majesty.” A man appeared at the doorway as if on cue. He was tall and broad-shouldered with breastplates and armor befitting a warrior.

“I believe you would want to have a word with this young man,” Boru nodded at Jonathan. “I deem him worthy of our cause.”

“I am Cahill, a warlord in service of our King,” the man walked up to Jonathan. His black mane was worn long and his dark eyes were kindled with feral energy. “I understand from speaking to Michael that you have been excommunicated from the Church over your Celtic marriage ceremony. This may work to our advantage.”

“How so, sir?”

“Our country, being an island as small as it is, makes it difficult for one to travel from coast to coast without being recognized by one who knows another of our friends or family,” Cahill grunted. “It makes it exceedingly difficult for us to send scouts into enemy territory, as the penalties for spying have always been severe in time of war. In your case, however, the enemy could easily see how a disgruntled young man might turn to the other side if rejected by the Church. I'm quite sure they would have ways and means to check your story, which would certainly improve your position.”

“Your Majesty,” Jonathan turned to Boru. “My father fought and died at your side in that terrible battle of 982, and I swore at my Grandda's deathbed that I would uphold our family tradition. It is not my nature to act as a deceiver or to spy on others, but if I am not worthy to fight alongside your Catholic warriors, I would accept this rather than forsake my chance to serve you in your cause.”

“Your sacrifice may well save the lives of many of your countrymen, my son,” Boru said kindly. “Go with Cahill, he will instruct you as to what we would have you do.”

Earlier that day, his cousin Aileen had gone to his home to visit with Shalane, stopping by as she was tidying the house.

“Ah, girl, you've set a high standard about this house,” Shalane teased her. “When I moved in here, I thought Jon lived in a museum of sorts. It was a fright just to set a meal without fretting over making a mess.”

“You do flatter me, lass,” Aileen blushed. “I was about to say how much neater the house appears since I've left it.”

“Now 'tis you who flatter me,” Shalane headed for the kettle to fetch water for tea.

“Has Jonathan changed his mind about fighting for the King?” Aileen fidgeted with her napkin at the table.

“Nay, it seems he's gone with his friends to attend the King's speech and see if he can find a way to get involved,” Shalane sighed. “Y'know, a man will do as he sees fit, and he'd given his word to your Grandda that he'd uphold the family tradition.”

“It was given to a dying man who did not know his grandson was to be married,” Aileen insisted. “I can say with all certainty that Brennus would have never held Jon to his word had he known such a thing. Suppose you are with child? Do you think for a moment my Grandda would have wanted to see yet another Sanders go through life without a Da?”

“We're taking too much for granted,” Shalane set a cup of beer and a hunk of fry bread before Aileen. “It may well be that the King will have no use for him lest it offend the Catholics. Perhaps our pagan marriage has been a blessing in disguise for all of us.”