Journey to Ruination

HEARTS OF ELLAN VANNIN TRILOGY Journey to Ruination Prologue

By Gloria Wiederhold

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Hearts of Ellan Vannin Trilogy: Journey to Ruination Prologue by Gloria Wiederhold Red Rose Publishing Copyright© 2007 Gloria Wiederhold ISBN: 978-1-60435-086-9 ISBN: 1-60435-086-5 Cover Artist: Sheba Productions Editor: Alexia All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give any ebooks away. Red Rose Publishing www.redrosepublishing.com Forestport, NY 13338

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Dedication:

Ta ghraih aym ort…I love you, Jakey, Richie, Barbie and Joseph

―In Celtic cosmogony, the power of a dream is as real as a footprint..." Hugo Pratt *** Les Celtiques

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HEARTS OF ELLAN VANNIN TRILOGY Journey to Ruination Prologue

By Gloria Wiederhold

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From their undeniable passion arose the proud hearts of Ellan Vannin… An introduction to a cast of characters whose passionate relationships set the stage for the events that transpires in the trilogy. Emmanuelle, the spirited illegitimate daughter of Lord Robert Percy is sent packing to the Isle of Mann to become the ward of the notorious King Magnus the Bold and his Irish born queen. It does not take long for the king to notice the qualities lacking in his prim and proper queen, abounded in his feisty ward. Little does anyone suspect that their meeting was devised by the malicious cunning of Elaine Dorset, lifelong servant to Rosalind, the Queen of Vannin to satisfy her own agenda-vengeance. Once spurned as Lord Percy‟s lover, Dorset sets the board in motion and manipulates her pawns down the spiraling path to ruination resulting in repercussions that will span generations of time in this epic tale of proud lovers and medieval intrigue.

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JOURNEY TO RUINATION

Alnwick Castle, England 1428 A HAUNTING Gaelic melody played in her mind. The sorrowful voice of a man, young and fair sang softly, stirring Emmanuelle‘s heart. She rode astride a steed, swift and far over the windswept moors, lured on by the voice as she evaded an unknown threat. Suddenly, from some distance place she heard her mother‘s voice calling to her. She yanked at the reins. The horse reared high and neighed in wild protest, causing her to slip. The infinite sensation of falling pulled at the pit of her stomach until a firm hold on her arm pulled her up into a seated position, back to the world of the living. “Mon Dieu, ma fille wake! We must begone without delay.” Emmanuelle struggled to lift her heavy eyelids. Her breathing was hard and uneven. She reached for her damp brow, shaken by the dream but even more frightened by the ashen look on her mother‟s face. Her governess and mother exchanged frantic discourse, haphazardly throwing garments into a chest. They rushed her to dress, pulled and tugged to ready her in their frenzied haste. “Ma mère, what is the trouble now? Whither are we going? Can it not wait until daylight?” Her mother continued to ignore her, throwing things and muttering curses in a raspy voice overcome by raw fear. “Why?” Emmanuelle demanded her mother‟s full attention. They froze at her shrill cry.

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Étienne dropped the small varnished coffer her daughter knew contained her most prized possessions—a few pieces of modest jewelry, frayed old love letters and tender notes endorsed by Lord Robert Percy of Alnwick. ―Misérable!‖ she uttered despairingly. Étienne wrung her thin hands and unleashed her frustration on her fourteen-year-old daughter. “Whatever happens from this moment onwards, you will silence your mouth. „Tis your saucy tongue and defiant manner that has forsaken us! We are disowned, cast out, hapless, bereft of hearth and home.” “‟Twas your arrival to Alnwick that upset everything Ma mère—not I! Lady Percy may have no love for me but she utterly despises the sight of you,” Emmanuelle shot back, but the look of utter wretchedness on her mother‟s face silenced her. She had caused her yet more pain and in truth, Étienne was a gentle soul. She knew her mother could endure little more sorrow. ―Pardonne moi. Forgive me.” “If you will find it your heart to forgive me, ma fille. I am the fool to blame you for all our misery and misfortune. Come, „tis time to bid this place farewell. We set sail tonight.” “Back to France?” Emmanuelle asked hopefully. Although Emmanuelle Percy was born in England, she had lived most of her childhood years in the lavish courts of France. She had developed an expensive, sophisticated sense of style. She had been schooled in etiquette, horsemanship and archery. Emmanuelle entranced the throng by her gifted harp playing and graceful dancing. Most of all, she delighted in the drama and intrigues that unfolded betwixt the nobles who had extended their hospitality to the illegitimate child of Lord Robert Percy of Alnwick. Emmanuelle, was shrewd enough to learn at an early age that her remarkable beauty had the power to entice and enchant, and she used her talents to her advantage whenever possible. Men young and old, highborn 8

and low, swarmed to her like honey bees to the alluring sweet scent of a flower. Her feminine wiles, popular with the opposite sex, earned her ill repute as a Lilith. The wives, betrothed, mothers, sisters and daughters of the men she ensnared so effortlessly to her will despised her. Her presence at Alnwick was a threat to Lady Percy and her daughters, whom were all of marriageable age, but dull and docile of temperament compared to the high-spirited Emmanuelle. “I am not certain child. We must hope…” “Esperance en Dieu, Ma mère. I will prove my Percy blood to you.” “Percy pride, ma fille…or poison?” Étienne and Emmanuelle followed the governess down a flight of stairs. When the three entered the solar, they found two men lounging by the crackling flames of the fire. One was seated, the other standing, warning his hands. The governess lingered by the closed door. Her mother‟s hold on Emmanuelle‟s hand tightened as they approached the men and she was forced to submit to a deep curtsy. Emmanuelle recognized the tall man who stood by the hearth fire at once. She had danced a Piva with him in the feast hall earlier that evening. He was Lord Gilbert Percy, Baron of Warkworth, her father‟s youngest brother. He bowed to greet Étienne and Emmanuelle, but the look on his face was dismal. Her mother wept softly, whimpering a low prayer as if she were pleading for her very life. Emmanuelle broke free of her hold and turned to her father. Lord Robert Percy sat eerily still, devoid of emotion. He completely disregarded the distraught woman. Instead, he glared intently at Emmanuelle who obstinately refused to shy away in his presence. Then, he smiled. “You set sail even now, Emmanuelle. I know „tis late but, once you are settled in and the ship assail upon the waters you will be safe. You should reach

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Douglas port just as the sunrises, and set foot across the threshold of Peel Castle as sunsets.” Emmanuelle did not the like the insipid indifference in his voice. Something was amiss. Lord Gilbert‟s expression was foreboding; her mother was distraught, overcome by emotion, cringing from Lord Percy‟s hard eyes. The governess wisely maintained her distance and only looked down at the stone floor. “Why must we go? Why must it be now, in the cold darkness?” Emmanuelle struggled in English. Lord Percy shifted in his chair. With a heavy sigh and penetrating glance, he responded. “The simple answer, dear child is because I would have it so. Such is your station in life that you must not question my actions. You had best learn to conform and obey.” “Am I not your child, a Percy? If I inherit naught else from you father, know this much…Percy pride and Percy courage are bred in me. „Twill take much to break my will, to make me humble myself—or obey.” Emmanuelle was going to push her limits. What did she have to lose now? “…to obey even you!” “‟Tis obvious Emmanuelle, you are a scion of Percy pride,” He was quick to check an urge to laugh. “My other children could learn much by your example, „tis precisely why I must send you away. Whither you are going you shall be safe in the care of an old friend..” “Old friend?” Étienne now rose to her feet to make an impassioned plea. “Mon Dieu, Dorset? She hates us, my lord, and has seduced you with lies. Her only wish is to see us dead. You are sending your daughter into a trap, to be ensnared by that Irish She-Devil!” “I would thank you to silence your mouth. Your only duty Madame Roland is to be a mother to Emmanuelle. Once she is wed, you can take the vows—do and go whither you will, back to France if that be your desire.” 10

“Alas…” Étienne despaired so at his brusque rebuke that Lord Percy ordered her and the governess escorted outside. Lord Gilbert followed. His stubborn silence and dark scowl were evidence of his disapproval. Once alone with her father, Emmanuelle could not resist the query. “Wed father, to whom?” “Arrangements are in the making but these matters take time.” “Must you be so cruel to mother?” “Lord Gilbert will escort you and your mother to Heysham port whither a ship waits to bear you away to Douglastown. Thither you shall board a coach and journey on to Peel Castle.” Her father had adeptly managed to evade the question regarding her mother, as she predicted he would. “May I ask, my lord, whither is Peel Castle?” “Not France. You are headed west. Can you not fathom a guess?” he asked turning his glance to the parchment map on his desk. Her mother‟s words ―Irish She-Devil‖ returned to her. “Ireland?” ―Deo Gratias…not that far.” He laughed. “We shall correspond as frequently as you like and you shall ever be in my prayers.” Emmanuelle doubted her father‟s words. She knew from experience he would never write unless she initiated contact. It was his policy to leave wellenough alone, intervention was always a last resort. Lord Percy rose from his chair at last, holding out his arms in an invitation to embrace. Emmanuelle was astonished by his gesture of affection. He had never ere that moment, offered a comforting touch. She rushed to him, resting her raven-dark head on his strong shoulder, finding the sandalwood scent and closeness to the fabric of his doublet warm and pleasant. He kissed her on the brow and lifted her face to him, smiling as he bid her farewell with these words, ―Esperance en Dieu…ma fille.‖

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***

Isle of Mann (Ellan Vannin), Douglastown Port The wind rose from the east. It was cold, miserable and damp. A handsome woman in a long, sweeping cloak of dark wool stood tall on the dock of Douglas port. Dark gray eyes peered across the rising swells of the Irish Sea. She shivered— not so much from the biting cold but from heart-pounding anticipation. She drew her cloak tightly about herself in an attempt to find warmth and cursed the ship for arriving late. Igraine O‟Tuathlain, known in Ellan Vannin as Elaine Dorset waited there for many hours, accompanied by several of the queen‟s guards. From their grumbling it was evident to her, they were eager to return to the warmth of the great hall of Peel Castle. Although numb with cold, she refused to budge. She was intent to wait it out, no matter how long, an eternity if need be. The queen‟s orders were simple—fetch Emmanuelle Percy and her French mother from Douglastown. The girl was to dwell at Peel Castle in wardship to King Magnus and Queen Rosalind of Ellan Vannin. Percy! The mere mention of the “Percy” name made Dorset‟s gut tighten with revulsion. Little did the queen know how much of a hand her old servant had in arranging the relocation of the lass to Ellan Vannin. Rosalind knew naught of her true intentions, Dorset being intensely private and guarded. She wisely kept her amorous past with Lord Robert Percy secret and how he shamefully spurned her for scores of other women. Ere her ill-fated liaison with Percy, Dorset considered herself wiser than the other foolhardy girls. She had refused his advances at first but desperate for love, and enthralled by the charms of a fair English lord, a 12

favorite in the court of Henry V, famous for his valor at Agincourt, she weakened. Percy flaunted power and wealth to lure beautiful women to his bed. Inevitably, she succumbed to his wile like all the others. He had lavished attention and costly gifts on her. Percy deceived her with empty promises until he had convinced her that his vows, uttered in the throes of passion were attainable. Elaine had believed she was his only true love and one day she would live in grandeur by his side, as Lady Percy of Alnwick. After nearly a year of intimacy, Lord Robert seemingly lost interest in the “impetuous, upstart” Irish girl. He had spent no time in replacing her with the lovely sweet-faced maidservant to none other than the dowager queen of England. Her name was Mademoiselle Étienne Alais Roland d‟ Valois. She was abandoned by Lord Percy and suffered the misery of heartache and shame. Lord Robert had refused to grant her an audience and ordered all of her love-letters tossed to the fire. Yet, naught devastated Dorset more than the discovery that Étienne carried a child conceived of her union with the Percy lord—a child recognized as his issue and for whom he intended to make generous provisions for in his will. Dorset recalled walking along on a bright summer‟s day, distracted by the sights and sounds of the Alnwick market place. At first, she believed it was another wistful dream of Percy. Then, she turned to discover them together, Percy and Étienne walking arm in arm, engaged in lively conversation. Étienne‟s voice as sweet as his was handsome. Their laughter had shaken her from her fanciful trance. Étienne, now well along with child—was radiant in a flowing gown of pale pink, a light fabric that fluttered in the breeze with a high waist to accommodate her protruding front. Her hair had strayed like a stream of golden brown. She wore a shimmering white veil set in place with a circlet of gold. Étienne seemed not to notice the forlorn Dorset. Lord Robert, however, had quickly turned his dark gray eyes to his spurned lover with a smile that mocked 13

her misery. To add salt to the wounds of her inflicted heart, he had stopped in his tracks, standing back with dramatic flair, to admire Étienne ‟s undoubted beauty. He had drawn her close and they kissed heedless of the public scrutiny. Ah, there was the Earl of Northumberland‘s wayward black sheep son at it again – squandering his fortune and good name and populating the county with his bastards! Poor unfortunate, misguided lass, whoever she may be! Confound and damn him forever. Dorset fumed, keeping her silence. She dropped the basket she had been carrying and uttered a curse to damn them forever. Percy shall pay dearly. I‘ll hunt that girl and the bastard to the ends of the earth and woe—woe when I do find them. Their lives shall be accounted worthless even in the eyes of Heaven! This was Dorset‟s hour of vengeance. She had Lord Robert Percy and Etienne‟s bastard daughter at her mercy. She relished the thought that her devious plan, many long years in the making, was coming to fruition. Dorset had managed to convince Lord Percy all was forgiven—that she held no grudge for the past. She was content to remain in the service of her beloved Princess Rosalind of Ulster, but if ever he had need of her, she would be more than willing to oblige him. And, it had come to that—just as Dorset had hoped it would. Lord Percy was desperate to relocate Emmanuelle, who had become the cause of strife and shame in his household. Dorset suggested Peel Castle as a convenient and remote refuge in order to part the lass from his lawful wife, Lady Percy of Alnwick. He had agreed to contact the king of Ellan Vannin, with Dorset‟s intercession to finalize the arrangements. Lord Robert Percy paid little importance to the lesser Gaelic kingdoms he considered neither threat nor benefit to England. Percy had unknowingly agreed to send his daughter into the clutches of King Magnus the Bold. The young Manx king was reputed to be the fairest of face to ever sit upon the throne. He was golden-haired and powerful in stature, more of a 14

Norseman than a Celt in features. He towered above most men, proven in prowess, cruel to underlings and merciless to foes. His appearance easily deceived those who esteemed beauty over honor, or inner virtue. King Magnus‟s heart was a black merciless void. The accounts of his proven ruthlessness and insatiable lust for gold, women and blood were far reaching throughout the Isles. Yet, by some tragic trick of fate, tales of Magnus‟s infamy never reached Lord Robert Percy. The ship dropped anchor, a looming, black silhouette in the darkness of night. It heaved up and down along the dock causing the icy surf to splash on the wooden planks almost drenching Dorset. Two dark figures descended the gangway. Dorset singled out the girl immediately with predatory intensity. “Be you Governess Dorset?” The man asked, speaking with a distinct northern accent. Dorset knew him to be Esquire Allan Prescott, servant of Lord Robert Percy of Alnwick. He wore a blue velvet doublet and cap, cloaked in black, a sheathed dagger visible at his waist. His puffy face was covered with a dark prickly overgrowth of whiskers. “I am.” He paused to take a swig of whiskey from his hip flask “I was told I‟d recognize you at once…by your eyes.” “Sirrah, let‟s be done with this. Was it all carried out according to my instructions?” “Aye…the dame and her lady were…taken care of. Their mortal remains plunged into the sea not a day ago.” Dorset broke into a blood-chilling smile. “Good then. You‟ve well earned your reward for this service.” She reached into her purse and handed him a parchment wrapped in thin red ribbon. “Take this note and tender it. „Tis for the full amount we agreed upon.”

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He nodded with a smirk, swallowing down another mouthful of whiskey. “It had best be, or you‟ll be seeing my face again…in your nightmares.” “You‟ll have to do better than that to frighten me, Sirrah. Bring that whore‟s whelp to me.” “‟Tis one thing to rid of the dame. She was of no account in this world. But this lass is Lord Percy‟s daughter the king and queen of Mann are taking under their wings. Harm her and there‟ll be a reckoning, I assure you.” “Lord Percy could care less for anything but his own base passions. Leave the girl to me. For certes—he‟s grateful to be free of her.” “Speaking of passions.” He winked. “She‟s a rare beauty. Wanted to sample the goods myself, if I could get away with it. I‟m still feeling hot to taste her.” “You Englishmen are vile.” “Is that what attracts you Irish wenches to us?” he laughed, tipping his velvet cap to annoy her. “Bring her,” Dorset demanded with an expression of disgust. “Come lass,” he called to Emmanuelle who lingered some distance from the adults, her hands stuffed in a luxurious warmer of sable fur. The girl approached reluctantly, her face hidden beneath the cawl of her scarlet cloak. “I present the governess of Peel Castle. She‟ll take you the rest of the way.” Emmanuelle merely stared in silence at the governess, refusing to curtsey and greet her. “Don‟t you know how to properly greet your elders? Where are your manners?” “I should warn you now—she‟s fiery tempered. I‟ve only heard her ramble on in angry French. Her English‟s difficult to decipher.” “She‟ll have to conform to our ways, our language,” Dorset warned with a steady stare and vicious sneer, “or die.” 16

Emmanuelle‟s gray eyes widened in anger at Dorset‟s threat but she persisted in her refusal to respond. Dorset took pleasure in musing how she would make the maiden‟s life a misery. Percy‟s proud daughter would be humbled and ere the end, she would long for the liberation of death and Dorset‟s shame would be avenged. The governess noted the girl did not flinch at her words. Good, Dorset grinned. She‘ll be a challenge to break, but broken she would be and then—when I‘m through with the bastard, Satan can keep her damned soul. “I reckon my business be done here. I‟ll take my leave and see what entertainment the Isle of Mann has to offer a lonely and lovelorn traveler.” ―Monsieur!‖ Emmanuelle suddenly called out for Prescott‟s attention. Her voice choked on the verge of a sob. She faced him only her ruby lips set in firm defiance. ―Bon chance, sweetings!” She held out her hand with the poise of a queen, urging him forward to kiss it. As he leaned over, his face was alight with a twisted combination of lust and wariness. She lifted her arm and struck him across the face with enough force to send him nearly tripping over his own feet. Prescott„s face convulsed with murderous rage. “You…bloody brat!” he sputtered a foul oath lifting up an angry fist. He managed to check his instinct to strike back and touched his face to discover blood on his fingertips. He had suffered a deep laceration caused by the ring the girl flaunted on her hand, Lions Rampant, the insignia of the House of Lancaster. Emmanuelle was unimpressed by his furious display and took a bold step forward “May you burn in hell for taking my mother from me. Heed me well, my English is sufficient to damn you. Give my noble father a message from me. Although he has cast me away…I shall die a Percy, with his blood coursing through my veins.” 17

Emmanuelle watched Esquire Prescott stagger away, grunting in rage. She was alone in Dorset‟s presence now like a lioness cub stranded in the dark, at the mercy of the wilderness, forced to survive or die. Now she came face to face with Dorset. “Heed you well,” Emmanuelle repeated in a low whisper to the smiling governess of Peel Castle. Her heart forewarned her that this woman was no friend. An insidious enemy had deceived her father. She instinctively knew Dorset was to blame for her mother‟s death and was not going down without a damn good fight. * * *

Peel Castle Rosalind peered from her open window across the causeway towards the eastern horizon. The seventeen-year-old Queen of Ellan Vannin shivered, giddy with the enthusiasm of a young maiden about to receive a precious and long anticipated gift. At last, the faint flickering of the ship‟s guiding light came into view. It grew steady and brighter, sailing slowly into the harbor beneath a starless sky. It would not be long now. Soon she would gaze upon the face of the child entrusted in wardship to Ellan Vannin by the Dowager Queen of England, Catherine d‟Valois. Time passed slowly into hours. Rosalind‟s eyelids grew heavy and she inadvertently dozed off in her cushioned chair by the window, clutching a pillow tightly for warmth and security. The hour was late when a sudden knock at the door startled Rosalind out of her rest. Governess Elaine Dorset, the queen‟s faithful servant since her childhood days in Ulster entered looking undeniably weary and flustered, bringing in the night chill with her upon her heavy cape.

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The old servant barely managed a proper curtsy, shoving the reluctant newcomer into her presence. Rosalind's eyes widened, stunned to come face to face with a lass, almost equal in height to herself. This was not the innocent youngster of six or seven years of age, Rosalind had envisioned, but a maiden on the verge of womanhood— marriageable. The queen was quick to surmise by Emmanuelle‟s defiant demeanor, she was not in accordance with the arrangement devised by her sire, Lord Robert Percy of Alnwick and England‟s dowager queen. “Welcome to Peel Castle Emmanuelle Percy,” Rosalind said, finding her voice and maintaining her composure. “We have long awaited your arrival.” The girl glowered in obstinate silence, bright gray eyes glared fiercely from the shadowy depths of her cowl. Her lips set in a firm scowl. When it was obvious she would not respond, Dorset gave her a swift jab and pulled the hood off her head, revealing a tumbling mass of raven-dark hair. “„Tis no surprise," Dorset said, "that you failed to learn proper manners amongst those wild Percys of Alnwick. Greet Her Grace with the respect and dignity she‟s due.” “I will not,” Emmanuelle refused in a clear voice full of rage, revealing a distinct French accent. “England does not submit to Ireland, Scotland or Mann!” “Beware lass, you‟re far from England. You were cast away by your kin and must now rely upon our goodwill,” Dorset sneered at the girl. It was apparent to the queen her servant was barely able to contain her anger. She had known Dorset to flog servants for much less insolence than Emmanuelle had dared in her presence. “Leave her to me Your Grace and I‟ll set her right in little time.” “Dorset, ciúnaigh. She will learn our ways,” Rosalind calmed her governess. To Emmanuelle, she resumed in a gentle voice, “The Dowager Queen Catherine and your lord father entrusted you to our care. I look forward to us becoming great 19

friends in time. You may rely on me as you would your mother.” Rosalind peered curiously over the girl‟s shoulder, expecting to find the other traveler appear from the shadows of the hall. “Did she not make the crossing with you?” The response was swift and shocking, followed by a temperamental explosion of tears. “You are no friend and shall never replace my mother. Serviteurs du diable!‖ Rosalind turned hopelessly to Dorset, who explained, “I was informed her French mother perished upon the crossing. „Twas a sudden fever, so the lass should be observed closely and kept quarantined for awhile.” Dorset's suspicious smirk warned there was more to the sudden death of the girl‟s dame than the governess was willing to confide at present. Rosalind merely nodded, ever trusting of Dorset‟s management and foresight. “Little wonder she is so distraught and rebellious," Rosalind said. "I leave her in your charge, Dorset.” “I‟ll delight in taming this one, be certain of that, Your Grace.” Dorset snickered as she eyed the girl viciously from head to foot. “Pray, Dorset, be not so harsh in her treatment. We are accountable to the House of Lancaster for her well-being. There can be no cause for strife betwixt our realms.” “I‟ve never failed you.” Dorset curtsied, but her smile sent a chill to the queen‟s heart. Rosalind was adept at masking her fear of the governess‟s capacity for cruelty. With shocking regularity, victims of Dorset‟s ruthlessness were carted away from Peel Castle, having met some mysterious end. Rosalind managed a dim smile, hoping to offer some consolation to the lass. “I am sorry for your loss…Emmanuelle Percy. I shall pray for you.”

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*** Rosalind McGilmore

indeed left the matter of Emmanuelle Percy to

Governess Dorset and resumed her efforts in adjusting to her role as queen. She arrived from Ulster to the shores of Ellan Vannin less than a year earlier to espouse King Magnus the Bold. The princess‟s true desire was to withdraw to a life of servitude but her father, King Cormac pressed for the political alliance betwixt Ulster and Ellan Vannin. Rosalind, ever the dutiful daughter agreed and took leave of her beloved homeland with great foreboding. Princess Rosalind‟s bridal entourage was an impressive sight crossing the causeway of Fenella Beach to the islet of St. Patrick, traveling under the banners of the golden harp and of the kingdom of Ulster. The escort consisted of her kinsfolk, a regiment of knights and many servants. Princess Moireach, a cousin so dear in friendship to Rosalind they could not be parted, accompanied her on the journey to Ellan Vannin. Moireach had agreed to dwell faithfully by her side as companion, confidant and lady in waiting. King Magnus looked unfavorably upon the dark, lovely Moireach, sensing in her an indomitable will that would defend her kinswoman to the death. Otherwise, the match betwixt Magnus of Vannin and Rosalind of Ulster was considered ideal for the McGilmores of Ulster, who were a notoriously violent lot. Many of the clan adhered tenaciously to the Pagan Old Ways. They were a match for the King of Vannin, infamous throughout the British Isles for his own ruthlessness, insatiable lust for power, bloodshed and carnal desire. He needed a belligerent ally to come to his aid if ever the shores of Ellan Vannin were threatened and he saw no gain in feigning piety. He was somewhat disappointed to discover his bride was all the opposite of what he had expected from a McGilmore. She was not a wild heathen but a prim and proper, devout Catholic. 21

Rosalind McGilmore was a great beauty, with dark auburn hair and flashing dark eyes, rosy of complexion with a slender and graceful figure. Despite her undeniable charms, the king considered her uncertainty a fault. Her knowledge of the world was limited to proper court etiquette, ordinary needlework, and mediocre ability in music and dance. She disliked riding and the brutality of hunting, both passionate pastimes of the king. King Magnus discovered the attributes desirous in a wife, woefully lacking in his queen—abounding in his feisty young ward, Emmanuelle Percy. *** Magnus the Bold first laid eyes on Emmanuelle racing recklessly from the castle and out into the gardens that lead to the postern gatehouse. She crossed paths with the king just as he had returned from a hunt, longbow slung over his shoulder an empty quiver in hand, and none too clean for having been out in the wilderness for nearly a fortnight. He had stopped short in his tracks, nearly crashing into the maiden in her flight. He stared down at her; an expression of haughty outrage was evident on her face. “Dégoûtant, l'idiot De L'île De Man,‖ she muttered an exasperated, less than gentle oath and stepped back to dust her kirtle. “Sir, you lack the common courtesy to excuse yourself from my path.” Magnus towered above her in ominous silence, peering at her with such arrogance that he effectively curtailed any further impudence. Then his look transformed from displeasure to wonder for the girl was remarkable in her beauty. The sound of Dorset‟s ranting at the top of her voice dispelled the trance and diverted his attention away.

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The old governess had chased the wayward girl down and demanded that Emmanuelle return to her duties. The lass merely smiled, glanced furtively at Magnus before she ran off laughing. The king, amused by the spectacle, called for Dorset. “Who was that comely maid?” he had asked. Dorset, still panting and livid replied, “That creature would be the ill-gotten daughter of Lord Percy cast away by her own kin. „Tis all too clear why they were so eager to rid of her. She‟s naught but trouble. She refuses to learn her place, is defiant to the queen and gives herself airs of being the grand lady. Surely she‟s fated to be locked away in some remote abbey.” “Ah, a Percy,” King Magnus's golden eyebrows rose with interest. “They are a famous—valiant lot. Her English kindred paid handsomely to harbor her.” Frowning disapprovingly at the governess, he reproached her, “Dorset, you failed to follow proper protocol and introduce her to me. „Twas evident the lass had no idea she was in the presence of the King of Vannin.” “Sire, she‟s a devious imp with a temperament unfit for civilized company. „Twas the queen„s order to keep her out of the public eye until such time she proved worthy to be recognized as a member of the Peel household.” “Aye, the queen would insist upon that. The queen should know not to take matters into her own fumbling hands. This Percy youth promises to be a magnificent creature indeed. Perhaps if the rogue girl gives herself airs of grandeur, we should encourage her ambitions to become the proper lady...although a touch of wanton impropriety combined with such beauty would better please me.” The king smirked. “She is the scion of mighty kings, no matter how ill-gotten she may be. See to it, Dorset—arrange a proper introduction and welcome for the lass.”

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Magnus turned from the scowling governess with an unmistakable gleam in his eye. He glanced over his shoulder at the girl making a rambunctious escape through the castle gates. *** Rosalind continued admiring her reflection in the mirror as her attendants completed the final preparations of their queen for the celebration. Moireach exchanged whispered jests to cheer her as she brushed out her silky auburn hair, allowing it to fall free over her shoulders. Sweet lavender oil moistened and scented her skin. She wanted to look her best, this night of all nights, for the celebration hosted to welcome Emmanuelle as a member of Peel Castle. Rosalind unhappily prepared for the dreaded occasion, clad in her finest queenly garments, a gown of rich, damask ivory silk edged with gold brocade and pearls. About her neck, she wore a rich emerald and the golden crown of Ellan Vannin rested upon her head. Inwardly she still reeled from the stinging humiliation she had felt when Dorset informed her of the king‟s encounter with that dreadful lass. It pained the queen Magnus would deride her so. She heard a voice and hurried footsteps, the familiar complaining of Governess Dorset making an entrance with Emmanuelle, silent in her wake. All traces of feigned cheer vanished from Rosalind‟s face, replaced by mute awe when she saw her ward. Emmanuelle proudly sported a rich new gown ordered by the king. It was of the deepest wine inset with glittering amethyst and sparkling gold. Her raven hair fell about her shoulders like a dark veil, a golden chaplet featuring a mesh of dangling amethyst crystals reflected light in dazzling purple hues. Rosalind gaped at the sight of Emmanuelle, clearly outdone in her efforts to be the star of the evening. Her world, her brief glory as the Queen of 24

Vannin, was certainly doomed. A slow smile came to Emmanuelle‟s pert, rosy lips as she sensed the queen‟s distress. Seizing the moment, she silently challenged her, mesmerizing Rosalind by the depths of her keen gray eyes. “Dorset…I am not up to the feast this night,” Rosalind stammered, overcome by emotion. “I am feeling quite unwell.” “Fear no devilry, Madame. You‟re the queen.” “I fear not for long,” Rosalind‟s voice was full of sorrow as she rose from her seat. The queen promptly dismissed Moireach along with her ladies. “Ha, the king will have his way with her," Dorset voiced her contempt as she walked pass the maiden adding with a cool smile. “Then he‟ll discard her as he does all his harlots and you shall remain the Queen of Vannin.” Emmanuelle turned unexpectedly toward Dorset, quick to rise to the offensive. “An all too familiar story, is that not so, Dorset? My father ill-used and then discarded you like a common strumpet. You despise my Percy blood and devised the death of my mother by some foul poison upon the crossing hither. So now you intend to ruin me.” Clearly, Dorset was stunned that Emmanuelle would be privy to such information—information she had taken great strides to keep from her queen, so great was her disgrace at the hands of Lord Robert Percy. Her hatred of Emmanuelle was brazenly evident as she glared at the lass. ―Bréagadóir!‖ Dorset hissed, slipping into Gaelic. “If „twere true, you‟d be dead, whore-born brat. She‟s a liar, my queen.” ―Ne pas penser à me détruire, Dorset. When the gracious king learns of your past with my father and how you mean to do me harm, you will suffer the consequences.” Rosalind paled as she gazed silently and doubtfully at the governess, keeper of myriad secrets. For a woman in her fifties, Dorset was still handsome of face 25

with thick, wavy dark hair streaked gray. She had arched brows and narrow, opaque blue eyes that peered like the sharp, keen eyes of a gerafalcon. Rosalind had no doubts that in her youth, beauty allied with ambition and her capacity for intrigue, Dorset could have easily seduced a noble, English lord to her will—up to a point. Lord Robert Percy was a notorious womanizer who had trifled with many a maiden of high and low birth, always with tragic consequences. Rosalind approached the lass, finding the grace to appear composed, her shimmering dark eyes fixed intently upon Emmanuelle. “Perchance, Emmanuelle, you will heed a warning from me. You are deceived if you believe our king to be gracious,” she stated in a quiet, emphatic voice. “He is—relentless in his cruelty. Pray that you never fall victim to his indifference or summoned to face his terrible wrath.” “If I were Queen of Vannin, I would rule as his equal. My enemies would be his enemies to be served bitter retribution,” Emmanuelle responded, jerking her chin to the queen. “I too, can be relentless.” “Is this Percy pride?” Rosalind huffed in disbelief. “Is this Percy courage? I think not, „tis the folly of a misguided child.” “Not a drop of craven Irish blood flows through my veins, Queen of Mann. I shall prove my steel to you to this bitter old hag and all who doubt me.” A long pause of silence descended betwixt the women, broken only by the lively sound of music and the din of voices in the feast hall. Rosalind inwardly steeled herself for the dreadful night to come. She lowered her eyes, long dark lashes flickering to drive back rogue tears. Without another word, she turned away from Emmanuelle to join the revelry belowstairs, in the great hall. The celebration to welcome Emmanuelle as a ward of Ellan Vannin was a lavish affair attended by all the nobles of the land. Never for one moment did Emmanuelle falter, rising to the occasion with confidence. She danced with 26

exquisite skill and grace, mastered in the courts of France. Magnus the Bold, infamous for his impropriety, did not mask his desire for the maiden. None present dared oppose him or correct his transgressions. Maintaining her dignity, she gathered the fortitude to stand, slowly coming to her feet. The hall became ominously silent and still as her subjects bowed their heads in reverence. Rosalind found it impossible at that moment to utter a prayer for the strength to forebear as Magnus and Emmanuelle frolicked on and on, oblivious to all. The guests finally diverted their attention away from the king. They all looked to her standing stone still, disgraced and humiliated beyond endurance. The echo of their laughter lingered in the hall and they danced even when the musicians had ceased their playing. Finally, Magnus took her hand and they gazed about them in wonder. The expression on the faces of her guests was of trepidation. They feared their young queen might commit some folly, doom herself by publicly opposing the king. ―Dar Jee! Are we besieged?” Magnus demanded in a slurred voice, seething with sarcasm. “Be it the second coming that the celebration is called to such a sudden halt without my consent? What be amiss?” Rosalind‟s bitter tears obscured the multitude of faces that glared with pity for her and obvious displeasure at the brazen maiden. Her lips quivered as she struggled to find words for her husband. Then Rosalind locked eyes with Emmanuelle who giggled, obviously amused by her pain. Refusing a response to her husband in his drunken state, Rosalind merely turned from his scornful face and made her way out of the feast hall. She posed a pathetic figure supported by Moireach and Dorset. “Tipsy on the ale she is," Magnus spluttered. "For being Irish, she could never hold her drink.” He scoffed but fewer joined in his mirth than he expected.

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“Play on, for the night is young and our guest of honor not affected by over indulgence in our ale! „Twill be dawn ere she weary of the merrymaking.” They paused at the threshold of the doorway and Moireach turned to address Magnus with the courage Rosalind could not muster. “Do not think all sins go unpunished King of Vannin.” *** From the occasion of the welcome feast onwards, Magnus and Emmanuelle were often in each other‟s company. The knights of Peel Castle continued to distance themselves from Magnus, muttering their disapproval of his latest choice to fill his adulterous bed. It was all too obvious that Emmanuelle was as perilous as she was lovely and willing. She raised brows by joining the king in the chase for large quarry throughout the countryside, riding wild and astride upon a palfrey steed. Under his tutelage, she honed her archery skills and became an expert rider. Magnus beamed with pride, always permitting Emmanuelle the killing shot, an honor she never flinched from taking with sangfroid pleasure. On many state occasions, Magnus and Emmanuelle were seen alongside each other so that many of the Manx subjects, who had never before beheld the true Queen of Vannin, believed that Emmanuelle was indeed Rosalind. They praised and cheered her, and Magnus would have it no other way. Meanwhile Rosalind continued in her works of charity, spent hours in solemn prayer pleading God and the Blessed Mother for the salvation of her marriage. She would appeal to all that was Holy to be rid of Emmanuelle once and for all. Yet, the disgrace was steadily mounting to become more than Rosalind could bear. She was beginning to have the most unholy of thoughts and the temptation to bring her rival to justice, no matter what means to an end she had to employ was getting the best of her. 28

*** Her heart stilled when she heard the footsteps approach. Queen Rosalind could no longer delay the inevitable. The king long ignored her requests for a private audience until finally, she had insisted he see her with great urgency. The waiting was unbearable, gnawing at her nerves as she attempted to concentrate on the embroidery frame before her. She jumped with a start when he burst into the room, like a naughty lad voicing his extreme displeasure in being forced to a task other than play. “I received your numerous pleas from Dorset to speak with me,” Magnus began with a deep, impatient sigh. “What the hellfire can be so urgent?” “Forgive my persistence, my lord.” Rosalind blinked, a blush washing over her face. “„Tis my duty to inform…” she began in a low, anxious voice. “Speak up for and be quick,” Magnus cut in viciously. His eyes searched the room desperately. “Dar Jee, never a flagon in this confounded room.” Rosalind attempted to rise from her seat but blinded by tears, stumbled on the hem of her skirt. She fell back and covered her mouth to stifle her sobs. Magnus impatiently turned to leave, but she reached out her hand, pleading. “Pray, husband—what I have to say must be told.” “Pray then, say it.” Rosalind swallowed hard and made a second attempt to rise, her movements slow and difficult. Simply by standing silently before him she hoped thereby to convey her message. She reached for her rounded front to emphasize the fact that she was along with child. “The child was conceived ere she arrived to utterly destroy any hope of our happiness as Man and Wife,” she informed, attempting to avoid his face. She dared 29

not look at him at that moment. She could sense his displeasure, like the sharp edge of a knife on supple skin. Rosalind gathered the fortitude to glance up to see Magnus stared dumbfounded at her. She felt the tears come—felt as if she were wilting away like a flower in a winter‟s frost. She knew, despite her husband‟s self-centeredness and cruelty, he was a proud defender of his kin and realm. He had longed for an heir to the Manx throne and would not cause harm to his own child. Long he remained silent. He was embroiled in a silent struggle with the reality of his situation and the consequences that would follow ―Mollaght mynney ort,‖ he uttered in dreadful, quiet anger. “You were wrong to delay so long to inform me of this.” “I dared not for fear of further ridicule,” Rosalind responded bleakly. “I know you and that Emmanuelle creature delight in making a mockery of me.” “Then you assume to know much.” “Perhaps you should send us away and take Emmanuelle as your queen. Allow me to return to Ulster and I assure you, my kin will not trouble you—‖ She had not completed her plea, when Magnus silenced her with scornful laughter. He shook his head, crossing his arms to stare at her in amazement. “Hark to my warning sweet, fair Rosalind and you had best heed me well. Any child of my blood remains on this Isle. I shall deal a bitter blow to you—or any who try to steal away with my child. Whether you decide to remain is your own affair, but rest assured you shall not be deprived of your crown. You shall remain the Queen of Vannin whilst Emmanuelle shall ever be my heart‟s desire.” “Having said such a thing, why should I even desire to live?” Rosalind sobbed. “What of my pride as queen, as a wife, as the mother of your child?”

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His clear blue eyes smoldered angrily in response to her tears. “Methinks „tis said, pride cometh ere the fall. You had best put it aside and remember your duty in all that you mentioned. I lay claim to Emmanuelle body and soul.” “Woe to Ellan Vannin. This deed shall surely bring heavy consequences upon us all.” “Speak not as if you had foresight or wisdom of any kind,” Magnus said, and left the queen to despair alone, her hopes for freedom thwarted. *** Magnus and Emmanuelle continued to frolic in each other‟s company, but as time passed, she sensed the king was deeply troubled. He was distant and distracted by a matter weighing heavy upon his soul. Never had she seen him behave so and it distressed her. They lounged unclothed in his privy chamber sharing a goblet of hippocras as she dropped luscious grapes into his mouth. She leaned over to kiss his lips, spilling her shadowy hair all about him, her full naked breasts well within his reach. “Will you not tell me what ails you, my lord king?” She leaned over and kissed him hoping to entice him, to confide in her. “There must be some way I can convince you…sire.” He gave a lusty laugh. “I do love that dance you grace me with when we are alone. It may serve to lighten my mood somewhat, my ghraih.‖ “Ah…the dance,” she joined in his laughter as she positioned herself to oblige him, lowering herself until they were face to face. She loved to watch him, taking his pleasure, whispering as she kissed his lips, “I hoped you would ask that of me, my king.”

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*** Emmanuelle walked swiftly to escape the crowd making their way into St. Patrick‟s Chapel. She stopped still when she found herself suddenly face to face with Queen Rosalind, accompanied by Moireach and Dorset. The trio glared with intense hatred at Emmanuelle, scornfully referring to her as, “„Striapach‟ the king‟s English ‗whorebrat‟. Emmanuelle did not respond to the insult at once. She gaped at the sight of the queen for it was obvious she was with child. “I can surmise from your reaction my husband did not think to inform you that we shall soon be blessed with a child conceived of our union,” Rosalind began. “Perhaps, Emmanuelle Percy, our fortune shall be otherwise when the heir of King Magnus is born. I shall gloat on your disgrace when he casts you aside.” Emmanuelle was quick to compose herself, smiling beyond the delicate wisp of a veil held in place with a golden chaplet encrusted with sparkling rubies and diamonds. She was brilliant in a rich silken gown of pale saffron edged in fine lace. In contrast, Rosalind wore a simple gray kirtle over a loose fitting gown to cover her swollen form. Seldom did she wear the crown that was rightfully hers. Emmanuelle oftentimes dreamed of claiming the crown for herself. More than anything, she wanted to take her place by Magnus‟s side as the queen of Ellan Vannin. Emmanuelle was also privy to Magnus‟s longing for an heir of his loins and had hoped to be the first to give him the child he desired. Yet, she failed to conceive and now the race to achieve that end had ended unless Rosalind gave birth to a daughter. Dorset broke into cruel laughter. “Methinks for once the bitch is at a loss for words.” “Pray it is the son Magnus desires and not a daughter. Even so, we shall see if Magnus ever would spurn me for anything in this world but I think not,” 32

Emmanuelle replied with sharp defiance, flaunting her newest gift from the king, a fully trained peregrine falcon in a rich velvet hood studded with rubies and pearls. “Do not be so sure of yourself Emmanuelle,” Moireach shot back in defense of her cousin who sulked in Emmanuelle‟s charismatic presence. Emmanuelle's reply was cool and confident as she soothed the downy front of the falcon with long, slender fingers. ―Nous verrons. We shall see.” ***

Peel Castle, March 1429 Emmanuelle entertained herself by offering small morsels of raw meat to her falcon whilst the handsome jongleur, hired from her own purse, strummed the lute to amuse her with a lively chanson. The sweet music reminded her of the bells of St. Patrick‟s Chapel. How they pealed clear and triumphantly throughout the countryside to proclaim the birth of the Prince and Heir to the throne of Ellan Vannin. She had heard the folk gathered in the bailey joyfully proclaim his name…Alban! Long live Alban, Prince of Ellan Vannin. Why did he completely shut her out? Emmanuelle despaired. King Magnus had increasingly distanced himself as the time for the birth of his firstborn grew close. She had heard the servants say he was by the queen‟s side the night she had been safely delivered of her precious son. A son! Confound the queen for doing something right! Was it over? Would Magnus discard the queen and his infant son to seek a reunion with her? Emmanuelle hoped so for she missed him more than she cared to admit. She missed the lavish gifts, the pageantry, the wild hunts and feasts. Alas, she missed their passionate lovemaking most of all. Why had she not conceived a child by 33

Magnus? Was she barren? For certes, the king was not at fault. Woe, what was to become of her? The music paused, startling her out of her reverie to find a youthful courier standing awkwardly with a letter in hand. She recognized him as one of the king‟s personal servants. She grabbed the parchment from the blushing lad, dismissing him with a wave of her bejeweled hand and a smug smile. Emmanuelle tore open the seal and her eyes scanned the letter at a frantic pace. She was somewhat disappointed by the contents. It was an invitation…but alas, not the long hoped for rendezvous, or a lover‟s plea to forgive his apparent indifference. “Ah, so the gracious queen will permit me the honor to stand in as godmother to her precious brat,” Emmanuelle raged with sarcasm, tossing the parchment into the fire. “Curse them all to hell!” She huffed and paced the floor with arms crossed, unable to accept the humiliation of being cast aside by the king. Brimming with spite and envy, she devised a plan to bestir King Magnus‟s jealous passion and tempt him back into her arms. She suddenly turned her attention to the jongleur keeping his distance, who observed his lady fume with the utmost discretion. She would begin with him. “Sweet, Mathias... do I have your name right?” she forced a smile. “Aye milady,” he answered softly. The wariness in his voice was discernable. “Put down that lute and pray—let us share a cup,” she uttered in her most seductive tone. Emmanuelle lounged upon her bed and watched him obey, a sly grin of anticipation on the lad‟s face. She gestured for him to sit close beside her. No man would have refused such a request from a beauty like Emmanuelle Percy. They locked eyes taking turns sipping from the goblet. She leaned forward and closed 34

her eyes, confident that she would soon feel his warm lips on hers. They kissed, savoring the sweet, mulled wine lingering on their tongues. Her eyes remained closed as she reached a hand to her troubled brow. She could not shake the vision of Magnus‟ face from her mind. “There is yet another service I would have you do for me…Mathias,” she whispered. Her voice faltered, revealing the torment of her soul. “Stay with me, hold me—love me—do not forsake me to my loneliness and despair…” “Whatever pleases milady.” *** Emmanuelle sat aloofly staring out of the window. She hummed as Father Connor read Biblical passages aloud and attempted to have a scholarly discourse with her. Queen Rosalind grudgingly consented to the king‟s suggestion to include Emmanuelle as a Godmother to the infant prince, only on the condition she prepare for the honor by participating in earnest study and prayer. The near impossible task of instilling Christian virtue and modesty in Emmanuelle was assigned to a young priest from Ulster named Connor O‟Tuathlain, brother of Elaine Dorset. Connor was a tall and lanky lad of eighteen with dark hair that swept across the structure of his well-defined face. His eyes were glimmering dark pools and his steady, doleful glance had a calming effect. Connor had an innate gift for language and song that proved to be advantageous in performing his priestly duties, but an even greater asset was his insight into souls, his generosity of heart and genuine capacity for compassion. Although these were beneficial qualities to his vocation, they were his downfall once his path crossed with Emmanuelle Percy, for he was not immune to the weaknesses of mortal flesh. 35

“„Tis fine outside. Can we not go for a jaunt whilst you read to me?” Emmanuelle teased with a pert grin “A jaunt in that blustery snow storm?” Connor glanced up from the Holy Book with a flustered expression. “Ye aren„t serious?” Emmanuelle simply could not resist a wicked smile, amused his Connor‟s thick brogue each time he spoke. “Perhaps not but I am bored to tears…Father. I have no wish to hear stories and your incessant preaching. Let us go seek out some lively diversion.” “What sort of diversion do ye have in mind, dear lady?” Father Connor rested back in his cushioned chair, placing the leather bound Bible aside. Emmanuelle‟s impish expression transformed to brooding pensiveness. “I know „twas the queen who imposed this ordeal upon me and I will not cooperate to appease her,” she voiced her displeasure with a childish pout. “In defense of our good queen I‟ll have ye know that „twas the king who had more say in the matter. When rumors reached his ears of your…the term he used was…‗escapades‘. He was livid and devised this plan to bring ye under rein.” “Is that so?” Emmanuelle huffed, uttering a tirade of angry words in rapidfire French. “I do despise them all, especially Magnus for casting me aside for that woman who seems to be good for naught but childbearing. I doubt if Magnus derived any pleasure in the begetting of that brat.” “Marriage is a sacred union and all children are a blessing as perhaps one day ye shall learn if ye have any babbans of your own.” “Perhaps you should resume the reading and leave the preaching aside…Father.” “Do ye not wish to be married and for the joys of motherhood?” Connor asked with a bemused grin. “Someday, with a man who will love ye true?” 36

“Wipe that smile from your face. You are goading me. Magnus loves me and if he was free—he would—make me his queen.” “Do ye love him that much or is it his crown that courts ye?” “I do love Magnus, as much as he loves me.” Connor responded with a cunning smile. “Ye have professed to hating him just now.” “Those were hasty words. All the world knows we are in love.” “Are ye convinced Magnus loves ye true?” Emmanuelle silenced him with a keen glance. “Let us end this conversation and pray, if ye wish to save me Father…find some better way to amuse me.” “Give me a moment whilst I think of a way.” He raised his hand to his chin studying her with profound interest, dark eyes narrowing intently upon her. She responded with a bold, inviting smile of devious flirtatiousness. “Ah! I have it.” He darted out of his seat and rummaged through his rather untidy bag, producing a bodhran. “Perchance I can entice your interest via your love for music.” He smiled. Emmanuelle‟s face brightened at the prospect. “What a lovely little drum," she exclaimed gleefully, “though it seems more like a child‟s toy than a real instrument.” “I‟ve had the pleasure of seeing ye dance the night away with King Magnus in the great hall.” “How sweet, play for me!” “Tis no ordinary percussion piece but a fine bodhran capable of creating a tempo to tire the most hardy, or…mellow the soul. I can conjure up the ghosts of Erin‟s past and bring a tear to the eye. I made it m‟self!”

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Emmanuelle watched in delight as Connor positioned the bodhran upon his left thigh, securing its circular ash wood rim under his arm. He raised the cipin and proceeded to strike the tight goatskin lightly, creating a mesmerizing rhythm. The sound produced was like the pounding of a heartbeat in a quiet, lonesome place. Then he began to sing in Gaelic, a melancholy hymn so haunting and compelling that she merely stared in awe of him. Ere long, Emmanuelle was “semi-proficient” at the bodhran whilst Connor instructed her on the intricacies of Irish dance steps. Soon after that, they were dancing gaily side by side, then intimately, face to face. In the dimming light, their lips touched. Emmanuelle pressed so close, she could feel his heart racing against her body. Emmanuelle saw Connor‟s resistance faltered. His eyes fixated on her beauty—on the rise and fall of her bosom. Bewitched by her charms, he was as powerless as the fly drawn in only to become hopelessly entangled in the spider‟s web. She clung to him so that he breathed in deeply, intoxicating him by the sweet aroma of her perfume. She knew she had succeeded in rousing his desire and made a bold move to kiss him. On the verge of succumbing, Connor suddenly opened his eyes and pushed her away. She watched panic overtake of him and he departed with an abrupt excuse. Emmanuelle merely smiled as she glanced down at the bodhran and the tattered leather bound Bible he had left behind in his haste. * * * ―In Nomine Patris, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus,‖ Connor and the female opposite the partition of the confessional uttered in unison. He made the sign of the cross and began the ritual of the sacrament of absolution. 38

“May the Peace of the Lord be with ye,” “And also with you,” the solemn voice, its accent unmistakably French, replied. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned. Profound sorrow assails my soul.” “The Lord rejoices that ye have come to seek the peace and grace of absolution.” “Father, my transgressions are many for I have wronged others by my acts of selfishness and pride. For my public defiance of his sovereignty, I have rightly earned the wrath of the King of Mann. My enemies, the queen and Dorset endlessly plot my demise and now that I no longer have the protection of the king, I do fear for my life. I must perforce seek sanctuary of the Church,” she whispered on the verge of tears. By this time, Connor was well aware the tormented voice beyond the screen was that of Emmanuelle. Her estrangement from King Magnus was taking a heavy toll upon her emotionally and psychologically. She sounded distraught, on the brink of despair. “If ye seek pardon of the king perhaps publicly, he may yet find it in his heart to forgive ye. If aught else fails, for certes the Church will not deny ye the Right of Sanctuary.” “Unlike our Heavenly King, this proud King of Mann does not forgive. He may grin but there is deceit and murder beyond his smile. He is above all the Hunter, relentlessly seeking out his prey until it is cornered, then he strikes and rejoices in his kill.” “Fear not, daughter, for the Lord is with ye. Place your trust in His mercy and might.” “Nay Connor, I place my trust in you. We can escape this place and dwell together for… I love you,” her voice quivered as she struggled to restrain the welling tears. 39

“Emmanuelle, ye mustn‟t despair so. Ye don‟t mean that.” “I do, I do,” Emmanuelle cried in desperation, her voice echoing throughout the church. “My enemies bay as they close in like hounds at my heels! I must not tarry in Mann.” Her pleas evolved into echoing sobs so loud that Connor was forced to exit the confessional, leading her away from staring eyes. She clung to him, trembling as they made their way across the fields in the rain toward Peel Castle. “Connor, I know my life is forfeit once the prince is baptized. That vile bitch Dorset is a murderess and will not delay to rid of me.” “We must petition the king for pardon. I‟m certain he‟ll arrange a place for ye with the sisterhood of Rushen Abbey.” “There will be no life caged in an abbey for me. I will not endure it,” Emmanuelle insisted vehemently. “Connor, mon amour, you must see how I love you above all others.” Emmanuelle pulled away and stopped still in the midst of the bustling courtyard of Peel Castle. It was then he noticed that she was clad all in somber black even her face was obscured by a black fluttering veil, as if she were confined to widow weeds. Connor lifted the veil to reveal her beauty. How glorious she was, even in her darkest despair. He looked upon her with pity, struggling with the temptation to take her into his arms like any ordinary man, to console her with a loving embrace. He wanted to believe her words were true, that she could love him with the same passion she had lavished upon King Magnus, but the wild desperation in her eyes proved her false. It was all a well-staged, superbly acted show to deceive him and enrage the king. Still, Connor could not help but pity Emmanuelle; certain she was unaware of her own self-deception. How could he make her comprehend her true wish was to believe she loved him—any other in place of Magnus. In this manner,

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she hoped to reconcile her loss and save herself from the disgrace of having lost the glory and fame of being the king‟s favorite. “I‟ll do all in my ability to assist ye, Emmanuelle,” he whispered sensing her vulnerability and urgency. “I‟ll petition Magnus myself…” ―Non, Connor, mon amour. He will kill you.” “I‟ve committed no crime to deserve retribution at his hands.” “He will see it in your eyes as I do now—that you love me. He will destroy you for that.” Connor shook his head in denial and stepped back from Emmanuelle, overcome by doubt and fear. Perhaps, he was just as guilty of self-deception. How many times had he become entranced by Emmanuelle as she sang and danced at the king‟s pleasure in the feast hall of Peel Castle? How many nights had he wakened from blissful dreams of having Emmanuelle in his arms and indulging in carnal pleasure? How many hours had he spent in woeful prayer begging for God‟s forgiveness and the forbearance to conquer his lust…or was he in love? “I must go…I shall…pray for ye Emmanuelle.” Thus she remained long, standing still in the streaming rain in the midst of the busy courtyard, watching Connor hasten away, shaken and confused by the encounter. “Dearest Connor, do not forsake me,” she whispered forlornly. “Alas, I am alone…” * * * Emmanuelle loved music but the dreaded voices of the choir bored her to tears. She closed her eyes with a shudder as she processed to the baptismal font amongst the numerous godmothers and godfathers to Prince Alban. 41

She glanced at Father Connor upon the altar but he was too intently focused on his duties to notice her. Finally, she arrived to where Queen Rosalind stood, cradling her son possessively. The ruddy infant fussed cantankerously following his immersion into the icy water of the font. Emmanuelle noted how the queen flinched slightly at the sight of her—refused to acknowledge her presence. She was not about to ruin a perfect day. In turn, Emmanuelle drizzled the clear holy water upon the infant‟s brow with a steady hand. She could not help but smile at the sweet, tender babe squirming in protest as yet another cold stream of water disturbed his sleep. It was then she saw the King of Vannin‟s gaze intent upon her. She was taken aback when he bowed his head to acknowledge her with an inviting, irresistible smile. Later at the celebration, a procession of esquires and kitchen servants, under the efficient direction of the seneschal, carried elaborate trays from the cookhouse to the great hall. There was whole roasted boar and swan with outspread plumage on an elaborate bed of green. An impressive display of pottage in trenchers, an array of meat pies that included quail, eel and rabbit was set out. The butler supervised the distribution of wine and ale to quench the thirst of the multitude. Young ewerers assisted the guests in hand washing as they filed in to take their place at the long trestle tables, males and females sitting alternatively according to the seneschal‟s detailed seating plan. The jongleurs began to strike up melodious tunes to put the guests at ease Emmanuelle made her entrance looking splendid all in shimmering white and gold damask silk. He arrived in her wake with the queen and Moireach on either arm, escorting them to their places of honor upon the dais. He glanced slyly over his shoulder, searching, no doubt Emmanuelle guessed rightly—for his beloved. Then he noticed her and made his way stealthily over to Emmanuelle, surprising her by taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. 42

“My ghraih, it has been too long since we danced together, too long since you were last in my embrace.” “Ah, am I in favor again, my king?” With a cunning grin, she enticed him to move closer. They quickly stole away into the darkness of an obliging corner, shielded from the eyes of others. “I yearn to win back the passion you have recklessly bestowed upon others so unworthy of your love.” “Of whom in particular do you refer, my lord?” “Alas, you can imagine my distress to learn so many hopefuls lined up for you, even Dorset‟s brother the gangly priest.” The King laughed as he leaned over her, enraptured by her beauty. “Even with God and all the hosts of Heaven at his call, he was powerless against such loveliness and wile.” “Surely „twas petty gossip and lies devised by my enemies‟ intent upon my ruination,” Emmanuelle protested, having no desire to turn the king„s wrath upon Father Connor. She suddenly felt his hand gently touch her face and in the next moment was held captive in his embrace as he whispered words of desire that normally would have ignited her wantonness. Now she remained aloof and unresponsive to his advances. “Tonight we shall dance, be merry and rest in each other‟s arms having had our fill of the wild, passionate lovemaking we crave,” he said, kissing her with fervent hunger. His hands explored freely, slipping easily into her richly embroidered bodice. He cupped the round, firm flesh of her breast, pleading for her to escape with him to some secluded place and revive their passion. “I fear that can never again be,” Emmanuelle said, pushing him away. He stared at her, mesmerizing her with the deep icy blue of his eyes. Then, he laughed quietly. It was not a comforting sound, however, but a prelude to unforeseen peril, like the gathering of dark clouds and the ominous rolling of thunder ere a ferocious 43

tempest. Emmanuelle often wondered how such a beautiful angel face, crowned with halo-like locks of flaxen gold, could be capable of striking such fear to the mortal soul. ―Assag! Impudent woman. You must be mad to refuse me.” “The queen rules your heart now, not I. Vous m'avez rejeté.‖ “No one rules over me,” Magnus retorted taking hold of her and pinning her against the wall. Although he had become dangerously irate, Emmanuelle refused to demonstrate fear. She beamed a brazen smile, undaunted by his vehemence. “Perhaps you should be informed, King of Mann, I love another and he loves me true.” “Methinks, you were never true,” he exclaimed with infuriating haughtiness. “What is this fool‟s name?” “I would not trust you with that.” She feared what would become of poor Connor if Magnus were to discover the truth. He would face obliteration without mercy, be he a man of the cloth or no. “How dare you? If I wished it, I could easily discover the identity of this supposed amour and dispose of him as a rival?” “Am I worth all that much to you?” Infuriated by her goading, Magnus grabbed her arm and forced her toward the dancers. Emmanuelle resisted so violently, he dragged her from the festivities to the murmuring astonishment of the gathering. The king would have his way with her after all. Again, Queen Rosalind suffered the humiliation and pain of abandonment with only Moireach by her side to console her. Connor sprang from his seat with the intention of coming to Emmanuelle„s aid even if it meant risking the ire of the king, but with a swift, firm hand he was stayed by his sister, Dorset. ―Níl maith ar bith ann! You had best keep your distance from that Percy creature,” she warned. “She is beyond God‟s salvation.” 44

* * *

Peel Castle, Autumn 1439 After that night, the passion betwixt the king and his ward was renewed. Rosalind was again, cast aside by the king. Her only consolations were in caring for her young son and in Moireach‟s companionship, whilst Emmanuelle frolicked as if she were the Queen of Vannin, living under the protection of Magnus the Bold. Connor was also forgotten as the years passed. He continued his priestly duties in the service of St. Patrick‟s Chapel, rising steadily in the ranks until it seemed that attaining the position of bishop was attainable. From afar he watched with concern as Emmanuelle‟s pride and power increased, rightfully earning the bitter hatred of the Queen and of all the subjects of Vannin who were faithful to Rosalind, many whom had benefited from her kindness and generosity. Not even the birth of the second royal prince to Rosalind was able to draw Magnus away from Emmanuelle. Unable to withstand further disgrace, the queen took action by devising a plan to depart secretly from Ellan Vannin with her sons aided only by Moireach, not even Dorset was privy to her scheme. * * * Magnus leapt out of bed, drawing the bed curtain aside with a savage pull. Several of his knights stood in readiness, awaiting their king‟s orders. As expected, Emmanuelle crawled to the edge of the bed, barely visible in the shadows witnessing the entire mayhem with gray glittering eyes and a cunning grin. 45

“Sire, the queen and her household have taken flight! They are making for the coast in hopes of escaping to Ireland!” ―Aile niurin! How can that be? Whither are my boys? Surely, she was not foolhardy enough to flee with them!” He demanded, enraged by the queen‟s daring. “Aye, they are in the queen‟s custody, sire. She means to steal away with them. She bid me say…‗Tell the King of Vannin he shall nevermore see our faces lest he musters the hosts of Ellan Vannin to battle the McGilmores upon the shores of Erin…‟” “Damn her insolence! Tarry not and bring my boys back to me. Dispatch a party of the most swift of horse and blade and warn them not to return having failed in this task. Let the queen and her folk swim back to the God forsaken shores of Ireland. Kill any who hinder the rescue and threaten to steal what is mine. Many will be held accountable for this outrage. Many will die!” “Aye, my king!” ―Mynnaghyn mollaght y cheau neose er,‖ Magnus hailed curses down upon them all. “Tarry not! Make haste you fools!” *** The Queen‟s daring infuriated the king who was intent on formulating a plan of vengeance. Magnus was in a perilous mood, his stare distant and cold. He was an imposing figure, standing tall, every muscle taunt as Emmanuelle encircled him, assisting him to dress. “What will you do sire? Will you send the queen away? Such a disgraceful act of defiance should be punished.” Emmanuelle questioned with a sly smile. “I will break them—the queen and that cousin of hers. They will wish they had never committed such a folly. I warned her years ago that I would deal a bitter 46

blow if ever she attempted to steal away with my sons, and now I intend to make good on that threat.” “Banish them, my lord. Try them for treason. Kill Rosalind and Moireach and be rid of them once and for all, then you and I may reign side by side as the king and queen of Ellan Vannin. „Twould be justice.” Her words stunned Magnus who pushed her away. She stumbled back unto the bed breaking into laughter. Undeterred, she rushed back into his arms. “My primary concern is my sons.” “I can give you sons—proud sons who would rule after you as glorious kings and whose might all the world would fear.” Magnus scoffed at her ambitions. “You promise me sons and yet you prove barren.” “There is always hope. We made love during my fertile time. For all you know, your child may be stirred to life in me even now. I-I know we will be blessed.” “Why would I not doubt the paternity of any child you conceived? You are a lovely liar and notorious flirt. I have not forgotten your disgraceful escapades with other men designed to bestir my envy. All you succeeded in accomplishing was making me distrust you.” Emmanuelle countered his rebuke with a light laugh, followed by a sensuous kiss. “What of your meandering ways, Magnus? You claim to despise the queen one moment and then you beget another son by her? I see the way you look at that cousin of hers. You know well enough they can never compare to me. No other woman can satisfy you as I can.” Magnus responded by taking her into her arms, clutching her close with brute force. She gasped for air; a faint smile quivered on her lips, a combination of delight and pain. “You are pathetic when you demean yourself by resorting to 47

groveling. Beware my ghraih—although I do crave your love, your charms will go only so far with me. Now is not the time for us to discuss these matters. I am overwhelmed by recent events and what I must perforce do to correct these transgressions.” “I want to be by your side, my lord, when you deal out justice to the queen and her bitch of a cousin. I want to see them bleat for their miserable lives.” “Nay—vipress. You shall collect your things, hie thee back to your bedchamber, and await my return. I will handle this matter without you to gloat on the queen. Your presence would be most disturbing to my sons.” “So again you put your sons before me! It seems to me Magnus, that all you do love in the world are your precious sons by that…haggard old prude.” “Aye, my lads are my pride and joy and you had best never forget that.” Emmanuelle struggled fiercely until it pleased Magnus to release her from his iron grip. “You swore to love me more than anyone in the world Magnus. Are you the one guilty of deception…lies?” “I am the undisputed king of Ellan Vannin. No one is worthy to judge me and gods are but tales fabricated to fright the souls of the weak. Begone, Emmanuelle! There will be ample time for me to prove my passion for you when I am done settling this matter.” Magnus threw his heavy cloak over his shoulders, indifferent to her uneven breathing and seething anger. She was unable to dissemble and glanced back in defiance. “Think not to come to me at all repulsive creature! I shall find another to fill my bed knowing you will never find satisfaction elsewhere.” “Ah, is that so?” Magnus responded with scornful laughter as he made for the door. “I will not be making haste back and methinks Emmanuelle, by that time you will change your tune. If I discover another has taken my place…you will 48

watch him hang from the castle walls. When you hark his wails of torment—you will count yourself blessed I spared your life.” *** Magnus dispatched eighty of his best knights to hunt down the queen and retrieve his sons. They succeeded in waylaying Rosalind at the western shore where she had hoped to take a ferry back to Ulster. Her guards fought bitterly in the defense of their queen, their backs to the sea but they battled in vain against the king‟s royal guard who cut them down mercilessly until they all lay slain. Thwarted in her efforts and unwilling to be parted from her sons, Queen Rosalind along with Princess Moireach, Alban and Godfrey were led back to Peel Castle. The queen had her arms tightly wrapped about her boys, greeted by the resounding cheers of the folk of Vannin. *** King Magnus waited for the prisoners, seated upon his throne in the great hall. He was a terrifying sight consumed by rage, eager to serve justice to the perpetrators who had dared to defy him. He had sent Emmanuelle away but Dorset was silent by his side, dreading the horror that was to come. At last, they heard frantic voices and footsteps approaching. The travel weary knights appeared with their hapless prisoners…Queen Rosalind, Princess Moireach and the two young princes of Vannin, Alban, aged ten and Godfrey, aged seven. Magnus rose from his throne, a smile of genuine happiness crossed his face at the sight of his sons. He held out his arms, eager to greet the boys in a warm paternal embrace. 49

“Alban, Godfrey…tar noal hym dy vaikym oo. Come hither and embrace me.” The boys hesitated, anxiously looking to their mother for approval. She nodded, encouraging them to greet their father. ―Tar magh! Come lads, you have naught to fear from me.” The knights that held Alban and Godfrey released them. The boys came to him somewhat reluctantly. Magnus laughed with joy at having the boys fill his arms. “You lads must be famished and weary. Dorset will take you to your privy chamber where a hearty feast awaits and then you must go fast to sleep. We have a busy day in the tiltyard come morning.” “We want mother to stay with us, sire. Will you permit her?” Godfrey asked in a voice that quivered with uncertainty. “You shall see your queen mother soon enough. Now off with you and mind Dorset!” Godfrey was quick to obey, but Alban glared hard at the king in defiance. He was horrendously blood-splattered, having killed a man in defense of his mother in an attempt to win their freedom. Now anger and hatred replaced the boy‟s former dread of his father and he confronted him. “Do not think to harm our mother, Magnus Ree dy Vannin. If you do…” “Now lad, have a care what you say.” Magnus silenced Alban from making any threats against him with a sharp, warning stare. “One day you shall be king and will be faced with hard decisions you would rather not deal with. You have my word, my beloved son that I shall not harm your mother, but I intend to carry out justice.” “What do you mean to do?” Alban demanded with fists clenched tight by his side. “Whatever it is, it cannot be good coming from you.”

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“Go wash those…valiant stains away and then off to bed, Alban. We shall discuss these matters in the morning. Dorset, take him.” Alban shot Magnus a scornful look as he marched past Dorset and Godfrey. He dared not look over his shoulder to his mother. He could hear her uncontrollable weeping and it would haunt him the entire nightlong...his entire life. Once Dorset and the princes had cleared the hall, Rosalind began in a tormented voice, struggling to regain her composure. “What have you done to my servants?” “I spared most of them. They shall serve you during your long confinement,” Magnus replied with restraint. Rosalind knew he could not hold back long and inwardly braced herself for the inevitable eruption and thus, it happened. “How dare you imagine that you could escape with my sons?” His voice echoed throughout the hall, stilling the queen‟s heart. “Did I not warn you—you would suffer a bitter blow if ever you attempted such a foolish thing?” “How can you blame me, Magnus? Too long have I endured the humiliation of a queen cast aside by her husband for a common strumpet. Now our sons are old enough to see for themselves the cruel tyrant and whoremonger you really are! For shame Magnus, for shame!” “Although I shall not harm a single hair you shall pay dearly, sweet, fair Rosalind.” He turned in sudden rage to Moireach making her draw back in fear. “You may bid your cousin a final farewell for I can assure you, nevermore shall you see her face again.” “Nay…” Rosalind whimpered hands clasped in supplication. “Do not harm my cousin. I am the one to blame and the one who should suffer the consequences of your wrath.”

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“Do not give him the satisfaction of begging, Rosalind," Moireach silenced her cousin, emboldened and ready to put up a fight in their defense. "He delights in the fear of others because he is naught but a craven fool, uncertain of his power as king—even his own manhood!” “Nay, she did not mean that,” Rosalind cut in quickly, urging her cousin from making further insults. Magnus closed in upon Moireach, fixing his dread, cold eyes upon her. “What will you do, noble king, strike a woman in public?” Moireach continued with a cool smile, refusing to flinch. ―Aalin erskyn focklyn,‖ Magnus said softly, staring contemplatively, his lust bestirred. “You are bold and beautiful, Moireach. Methinks you shall change your tune anon when I visit you…in private. I can assure you, you will not enjoy your dark imprisonment, which will be quite unlike your cousin„s confinement. Take her away to the dungeon!” Rosalind continued to sob in heart wrenching despair. She gave a bitter cry to see the guards lead Moireach away in chains, denied a final embrace, a final kiss, a final farewell to a lifelong companion and her dearest kinswoman. “Magnus, I pray you…have mercy. Forgive my folly,” Rosalind pleaded to appease Magnus, hoping to see her sons again whilst she lived. “Bid the boys goodnight and then you shall commence your confinement. I hope your time away from them will teach you that a parent should never be parted from a beloved child." He commanded his knights, "Take the queen and see that she lacks for naught!” Then he turned his back to the queen and ascended the throne. He remained long after the hall had emptied and the torches were extinguished, draining his cups, sorely muttering his discontent.

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* * * Dorset waited in the shadows of the corridor. As promised, King Magnus had positioned sentries at the door of the queen‟s privy chambers so any hope of escape was futile. Rosalind appeared, leading the boys by the hand. She glanced hopelessly at Dorset, who endeavored to remain neutral in the escalating strife betwixt the King and Queen of Vannin. The princes appeared pale and frightened as they stared at the governess. The torchlight cast hard shadows upon her emotionless face. Alban was sturdy and tall for ten, with tawny locks reaching down to his shoulders. His younger brother, Godfrey was scrawny with hair of a reddish hue, sporting torn stockings and skinned knees. Alban had been alert throughout the ordeal, cognizant of the strife he and his brother were caught in the midst of. As the eldest, he had stayed by his mother, urging her to be strong. Godfrey remained silent, save for an occasional sniffle caused by a cold caught several days earlier. Rosalind turned her attention to her sons. “Now dears, Dorset will take you to your father whilst I rest awhile. You must be on your princely behavior, be not wee rogues.” “Aye, Mother, we will do as you wish and look after each other always,” Alban replied calmly, though he feared never to see her alive again. Despite his youth, Alban could plainly see his mother was weary and dismal beyond all hope. Rosalind smiled as she squeezed his hand hard. “I know you will, my brave son, tá mé chomh mór sin i ngrá leat.‖ Alban kissed her tenderly, trying not to see the tears of pain brimming in her eyes. Then the elder brother took the younger by the hand, dragging him away. The unhappy Princes followed reluctantly to where their brooding father awaited their arrival. 53

During the time that followed, Emmanuelle distanced herself from Magnus. She was not overly fond of the boys and was jealous of the attention he lavished upon them instead of her. The King of Vannin closely supervised his sons during the queen‟s confinement. Much of their time was spent hunting stag and wild boar and at hawking. They earned their share of scrapes and bumps in the tiltyard. He coached them in becoming proficient riders, skilled archers and unyielding opponents at arms. They watched their father triumph in fierce jousting tournaments, bullying and terrorizing those who dared to challenge him. The princes learned to show no emotion in Magnus‟s presence thereby hoping not to draw undue attention to themselves or bestir the king‟s displeasure. The dreadful final scene of their failed escape continued to replay in Alban‟s mind—of thundering riders hard on their trail, closing in with startling speed. Rosalind urging the coachman forward, knowing flight was futile as she clutched her sons close and prepared for the worst. The faces of his father's knights, fearsome and monstrous to the terrified princes. Then it was all over. The princes would remember that dark day as the most dreadful one of their lives. * * *

Peel Castle, October 1440 “Demand? Madame, you are my prisoner and in no position to make demands!” “I must know the fate of my cousin. You had no right to harm her, „twas was my plan to escape Vannin. Let your wrath fall upon me alone,” Rosalind pleaded on Moireach‟s behalf. The queen was a frail, pathetic figure knelt before Magnus who watched with downcast eyes, deriving pleasure from her suffering. 54

“Ah wife, but you shall feel the sting of my vengeance upon thee,” he spoke in a low voice, each word emphatic and cruel. It was a struggle for him to repress the rage that seethed in his soul. Rosalind begged to know if the rumors that had reached her during her imprisonment were true. Magnus obliged her. He watched her heart break and relished the horror in her dark eyes when he informed her of the especially malicious fate he had imposed on the lively young Moireach. She was meanly imprisoned for a long ten months, forced to endure unimaginable horrors and indignities. Satisfied with the outcome, Magnus rid of her forever by arranging a clandestine marriage to his cousin, Rolf of Orkney. “Methinks a cousin for a cousin be a fair trade indeed,” he boasted to Rosalind. “She bid me to leave you a gift, one she hoped you would cherish as dearly as you do your own sons.” He lifted the goblet to his lips, watching Rosalind over the rim. She rose to her feet. “Do your worse Magnus. I care not and am prepared for whatever comes. It can only be devastation, like the sudden deathblow of an executioner‟s axe.” “Dorset! Bring forth the queen‟s gift. She is prepared to receive it now.” Dorset appeared from the antechamber with a newly born infant swaddled in a delicate woolen cloth embroidered with the Celtic Knot pattern of Ulster. “I warned you long ago, any child of my blood remains on the Isle,” Magnus reiterated, delighting in the distress graven on her face. A quick cupbearer took the empty goblet from his hands as he stepped down from the dais to tower over his wife, “„twas a lesson your cousin Moireach learned at once.” “I would that I had a dagger this moment. I would happily plunge it into your black heart.” Rosalind managed in a strained voice. Her head shook involuntarily.

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“Is that so? Hither is my dagger but in truth Rosalind, you would never kill me.” ―Diabhal…you are a creature.” ”Hmmm, some do find that to be one of the qualities distinguishing me as a lover beyond compare.” His lusty laugh echoed ominously in the hall. “Moireach did redeem my impression of the women of Ulster as bedmates worth the effort! She had spirit enough to put up a fight, but then, how sweet was the final surr—‖ “Damn you Magnus! You shall answer for your evil before the seat of the Almighty,” Rosalind shot back, her face twisted in disgust. Magnus was amazed at Rosalind‟s resolve. Her time in confinement had obviously hardened her heart. Then there was a sudden cry from the child fussing hungrily in Dorset‟s arms. “I shall continue to keep my boys close," Magnus announced callously, "leaving you ample time to become acquainted with this handsome lad now lacking a loving mother‟s arms. Moireach did name him….Roan…ere her departure for Orkney. Methinks the babe for two princes is just recompense for a guilty queen. Take her away.” * * * The Queen of Vannin prayed for a reunion with her sons and the downfall of the king‟s power over her. What followed were darker times. The winter season of 1440 was remembered with infamy for bringing plague and rampant death to Ellan Vannin. Rosalind sat in quiet prayer beside Prince Godfrey, pleading to God to spare her young boy. The sunrise had barely emerged when her solitude was disturbed by a page with grim tidings. “Gracious Queen, the king‟s health has taken a sudden decline and your presence is requested by his bedside. Even now he is surrounded by his ministers, 56

knights and clergymen prepared to administer final rites. 'Tis feared he may not survive to midday.” The queen stared passively at the pale face of her child indifferent to the tidings of her husband‟s imminent demise. What if she traveled to her husband‟s side and the boy faltered, only to be accounted amongst the ever-rising causalities? She dared not leave him, but she knew she must. “What of Alban? Does my son remain untouched by this foul pestilence?” the queen inquired of the young prince, who hand been sent alone into confinement to safeguard his health and ensure the ascent to the throne. “Aye, Dorset informs us daily of his condition. He is somewhat lonesome but well.” Rosalind closed her eyes with a prayer of thanksgiving. She quickly crossed herself as she rose to her feet. “Then lead me hence to the king.” Her attendants laid a luxurious bearskin cape upon her shoulders. With a swift wave of her hand, she declined placing the golden crown of Vannin upon her head. She followed with the greatest reluctance to where armed knights waited to escort her. “The Queen!” Her arrival was announced by a sentry and the grim congregation cleared a path for her. She entered the king‟s chambers with swift, determined steps. The rank smell of steeping sage, verbena and other medicinal concoctions turned her stomach. As she approached the bed, the physician drew aside the ornate crimson drapes to reveal a terrible sight. King Magnus writhed in feverish agony on the bed. His once fair face was riddled with oozing, infectious sores. She watched with indifference as he whimpered in his delirium, calling for her—Emmanuelle, the one name the queen was loath to hear before a roomful of ministers and her heart was hardened. 57

“Ere he fell into this crippled state, the king signed a decree that named you sole regent until such time that the young prince should be proclaimed the King of Vannin. What be your will, our gracious Queen?” Rosalind raised a single eyebrow, smiling despite herself, and stated aloud in a steely voice, “We will be rid of the threat to our sovereignty once and for all. Bring forth Emmanuelle so that justice may be served at long last.” She turned her back on them all and returned to her ailing son. Alas, she cared not if the king last out the day. God would be his judge but Rosalind was determined to make Emmanuelle Percy pay for her crimes ere death close her eyes. * * * Although King Magnus had survived a debilitating bout with the plague, the illness left him enfeebled to the point that Queen Rosalind was required to take over matters of state as regent. This was not only her opportunity to prove her worthiness as queen—it was also her hour of vengeance. Rosalind summoned Emmanuelle before her as Dorset stood faithfully by her side. Emmanuelle entered the great hall, approaching the throne with steadfast confidence. Of course, she had dressed magnificently for the occasion, standing radiant in her arrogance before the dais. The queen took immediate offense by Emmanuelle‟s greeting, a graceful, pert obeisance that was more of a mockery than a gesture of respect. “We have called you to answer to serious charges made against you.” “Madame, let me hear the lies conjured up by my enemies.” A slow smile crossed Rosalind‟s lips and then she spoke, her voice hard and fell. “„Twas by your witchcraft that plague inflicts our land and our king and child lie on the brink of death. Our friends forewarn that you conspire the death of our 58

sons. You carry a bastard, hopeful to usurp their rightful place as future rulers and defenders of this realm. You will stop at naught until you destroy us all.” Rosalind paused to relish the transformation on Emmanuelle‟s face from haughty contempt to dismay. “Mensonges, lies! All preposterous lies fabricated by those envious of my position and who desire my death,” Emmanuelle replied with a sharp, accusing glance to Dorset. “Although I may not be overly fond of the princes and certainly they have no affection for me, I would never harm them.” “Nonetheless we fear for the welfare of our sons and are authorized to act in the king‟s stead.” “I demand that evidence be brought forth in trial,” Emmanuelle stated evenly. “There shall be a trial indeed, but until such time we are placing you under arrest. This is a necessary measure to ensure the safety of our sons. Know this, Emmanuelle. We intend to sue for naught less than a traitor‟s death, a torturous death by flames, a death you well deserve and as we watch you shrivel to ash we shall rejoice. All of Ellan Vannin shall revel that day. During your imprisonment you had best prepare your defense and make peace with God.” “I shall claim Right of Sanctuary, my life needlessly endangered by your false accusations, endangered because I am a Percy, because your husband loves me and long ago abandoned you.” “Be not so certain Magnus was true to you whilst unfaithful to us.” Rosalind smiled thinly. “Magnus keeps secrets from you as well, Emmanuelle. Even your harlotry could not sufficiently satisfy his lust.” “I do not believe you,” Emmanuelle retorted as the guards stepped forward to take her away. “I have committed no crime against your sons. Release me!” she demanded, struggling in vain against the strength of the men as they roughly 59

placed heavy metal bands on her wrists. “Dégoûter cochons! Filthy swine—let me go! The king will hang you all for this!” Dorset laughed. Rosalind delighted in Emmanuelle‟s torment. “‟Twould be unwise to insult these good men whose task „twill be to supervise your arrest,” Rosalind warned with a triumphant smile. Despite her fierce struggle, the guards bound her in chains. Emmanuelle, now looking wild and disheveled, glared in fury at the queen and Dorset. “„Tis King Magnus who is the enforcer of the law in this land, not an upstart Irish slave such as you,” Emmanuelle snapped, still struggling against capture. “The king shall know of your treachery. You shall stand before him to answer for the conspiracy to destroy his beloved sons! „Tis the king who shall endorse your death warrant as we watch in triumph.” “You demean yourself by wrongfully using your own sons to condemn me. You shall live to regret this moment, Queen of Mann. L'idiot d'une reine! L'idiot d'une reine!" “Take the prisoner away! We wish never to see her face again,” Rosalind commanded in a loud, echoing voice as she gave the signal to the guardsmen. Emmanuelle protested in agony when she felt the savage tug on the chains. The guards led her away, like a harnessed beast to the slaughter. *** Emmanuelle had hoped for a merciful house arrest, but instead her worst fears were realized when she was taken to the uppermost room of the tower prison. She was alone, locked in a dank, dark room with only a table, a rickety chair, and a wooden cot for comfort. A narrow open window let in the bitter cold night air. Dirty straw was scattered upon the stone floor and there was no blanket 60

for warmth. The jailors laughed boisterously, indulging in their ale. They make snide remarks about her relationship with the king. At that moment, she prayed God for the mercy of a peaceful death. Her life of privilege and grandeur was over forever. She had traveled steadily down the spiraling path to doom and ruination. Emmanuelle endured a long, restless night and was jolted out of sleep at first light by the harsh sound of the key forcing open the rusted lock. The jailor entered, muttering incoherently. She imagined herself dreaming, when to her astonishment Father Connor followed him, snow piled upon his shoulders and a heavy basket in hand. He rushed to her side and rummaged through the basket until he found a heavy woolen blanket, which he placed about her. At that moment, he was fairer than a radiant angel from on high and her desire for King Magnus was dissipated forever. She did not doubt that thereon, she would love Connor to the bitter end. “„Tis a miracle to find ye still alive after the bitter cold night that passed,” he managed a smile, observing her miserable state. He reached under his cape to produce a flask of water. From the basket he unwrapped millet bread and goat cheese which he offered in small bites to her. She was too weak, overcome by weariness to lift her arms around him, to greet him with joy. “The sight of you, Connor, does give me hope,” she managed bleakly. Her demeanor was passive, submissive, even humble and gentle. “The queen does conspire my death. „Tis imperative I make an escape from Mann. Connor… you are the only one who can save me now.” “I intend to do all I can to assist ye within reason and with the greatest discretion. The queen‟s acting as regent whilst the king recovers his health, so we must proceed with caution.” “I will not last long in this foul place. If there is a trial, I shall be condemned. The queen will see it done according to her will, and her will is to see me dead.” 61

“I do have a plan. There‟s naught the Isle of Mann dreads more than England‟s avarice for conquest and England„s fury in battle. We must inform your Percy kindred of your plight and in turn they‟ll petition King Henry for justice,” Connor whispered as the jailor shuffled past the prison cell. “There is no time for that! It may take months even if they respond at all. There is strife abound amongst the nobles of England for the right to rule. King Harry is a pathetic king who regularly suffers bouts of insanity, encouraging usurpers to take the throne! He is as doomed as I am,” Emmanuelle retorted passionately, her fire reignited. “Hush! I know „tis a desperate plan but we‟re in such a dire plight that any plan‟s better than none,” Connor continued in a low, fearful whisper. “Oh Connor, let us find a way out of Mann. Let us escape anywhere, Ireland, Scotland, France—anywhere.” “We must place our trust in God, Emmanuelle. He‟ll be our companion, our defender and comforter to the end. Be not afraid,” he assured, taking her hand and soothing it with a warm touch. She closed her eyes as he sang, conjuring visions of a land, remote bright and green, beckoning to her. Connor continued his daily visitations to Emmanuelle‟s prison, bringing her consolation and necessities. He read aloud and sang to ease her plight. Emmanuelle smiled at how easily he charmed the jailors who derived pleasure in his lively tunes. As he gained their confidence and they carelessly made merry, Connor whispered on the sly to Emmanuelle, encouraging her to draft a letter to her father, Lord Robert Percy of Alnwick. He urged her to inform him of her predicament and plead for his support. She did so with reluctance, certain her urgent plea would go unanswered.

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“Godspeed you in this endeavor.” She handed the letter to Connor looking forlorn. “If only we were crossing the Irish Sea instead of this message, there would be some hope for us.” “Hope‟s all we wretched mortals do have. Hope in God…„tis your own family motto! To that hope add much Faith…with both ye shall be delivered from your enemies.” ―Je prie vous ont raison, mon amour.‖ She smiled to mask her uncertainty and sorrow. “I hope you speak true, Connor.” * * * Emmanuelle jerked out of sleep when the door of her cell opened and a shadowy figure entered. She was relieved to discover it was Father Connor. “Don‟t utter a word. Arrangements are in place for our immediate flight,” he whispered, urging her to rise. “We must make haste whilst the path‟s clear, come away.” She immediately sprang up and followed stealthily behind him. One of the jailors was slumped over in a deep sleep. Connor explained he had laced his ale with a large dose of henbane. The other was nowhere to be seen, probably passed out in the lower garderobe, Emmanuelle guessed. They scurried down the long, narrow stairway. Connor signaled for her to halt, to ascertain if the passage ahead was clear. Once he returned, they fled the tower, racing onwards in the chill night air. Finally, they arrived at the barnyard just outside Peel Castle. There a hay cart with a horse harnessed to it awaited them. Connor lifted Emmanuelle into the cargo area and covered her. “Stay low until I signal „tis safe. We shall be on the road for some time.” 63

Emmanuelle nodded, her heart pounding with elation that she was free. With a low ―Ho…‖ the horse forged ahead and the long journey commenced. It ended with the sound of the surf and the splendor of the sun emerging from the horizon as it made its steady ascent into the sky. Connor wearily assisted Emmanuelle down to savor complete freedom at last! She rushed into his arms and kissed him. “Oh, I shall be forever indebted to you for this kindness.” Connor eagerly embraced her and for a long moment, they shared a tender kiss. They looked deep into each other‟s eyes and acknowledged the promise of love. Emmanuelle and Connor dwelt as lovers in a remote modest white washed cottage overlooking the sea surrounded by fields of green and patches of bright golden cushag, taking comfort and pleasure in each other‟s embrace. In that dwelling place, Connor presented Emmanuelle with a golden Celtic cross, which he placed upon her breast and secured about her neck. “This is from m‟homeland, County Down in Ulster. A wise woman gave it to me as we made the crossing. I‟ll never forget how she smiled at me saying in Gaelic, ‗Take this and give it to thy love,‘ I was certain she was mistaken and told her so. „I‘m soon to be ordained into the priesthood. I‘ll never have a love such as ye infer.‘ She insisted I would even though ordained I‟d be! Imagine m‟horror, but now there‟s no denying. She was right. As soon as I laid eyes on your beauty at Peel, I knew the prophecy was inevitable.” “How bright and beautiful,” Emmanuelle thanked him with a merry laugh, delighting in the pendant. “Just like you and our life hither, in this quiet solitude.” “May it remind ye always of my love for ye.”

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Emmanuelle rushed to embrace him upon hearing the sorrow evident in his voice. She kissed him sweetly. “I shall cherish this gift always, mon amour and the memories of the joy we shared I shall take with me to the grave.”

*** The thunder of riders and the light of torch fires beaming into the cottage startled the lovers out of their heated embrace. “Come forth, traitors, by commandment of King Magnus! Be forewarned, our orders are to take you dead or alive! Submit peacefully or face the consequences,” King Magnus‟s captain ordered belligerently. “Your jealous God has forsaken us to Magnus,” Emmanuelle whimpered bleakly, making haste to dress. “Be still my love. We must attempt to reason with them.” “Nay, „tis finished,” Emmanuelle whimpered and gently kissed his lips. “Forget all the foolhardiness of my past and remember this moment. I shall love you for so long as I live and at the hour of my death, your loving face shall be my comfort.” “Despair not, Emmanuelle for there‟s always hope,” Connor reassured her as he finished dressing and prepared to step outside. As he did so, he immediately found himself surrounded by many of the king‟s knights with weapons drawn and ready to strike. “On your knees, would be priest. You are under arrest for aiding the escape and harboring this vile prisoner.” The knights joined in lusty mockery of Connor as he knelt before them. “Now is the hour to beg for God‟s protection, your holiness!”

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“„Tis better to forgo the vows of priesthood and indulge in the love of a woman.” ―Ben chadjin!‖ ―Strumpag!‖ “Where is the French whorebrat wench?” ―French? Is she not a fresh English rose?” they laughed heartily together. “Aye, too proud and mighty to speak our language, is she?” “Well, we won‟t comprehend a word when she begs for the mercy of death!” “Aye, the harlot thinks she has the king and queen underfoot! Wait until she feels the noose tighten about her neck as she dangles from the walls of Peel Castle and Manx arrows pierce her cold heart!” “She probably did not believe we possessed the wit to read Latin either if by chance we intercepted this!” One of the knights chuckled as he held aloft the letter meant for her father‟s eyes in England. “So she would incite England‟s fury against us—traitorous whore!” “Don‟t lose that upon Dorset‟s orders. „Tis our evidence and her own death shroud!” The mockery continued until at last, Emmanuelle appeared from inside the cottage, tall and proud. Her hair strayed like a dark veil in the night wind as she faced the knights with unflinching courage. “I am here, brave Manxmen! Take me to my enemies and let them do their worst. I am a Percy and unafraid.” The knights were stunned into silence. The leader then approached her with a determined gait and spat on the ground at her feet. Emmanuelle scoffed as she met his eyes with brazen defiance. “You have excellent manners for a Manxman, I must commend you.” 66

“We shall all cheer in delight when we watch you die.” The guard sneered and then gave the signal to bind Connor and take him away. “Esperance en Dieu!‖ he shouted the motto of the Percys, one final desperate consolation to his beloved Emmanuelle. “Hope in God!” Those oft uttered words took on such grave significance to her now, at that dark hour surrounded by enemies. Emmanuelle watched the guards place metal bonds on Connor‟s wrists and brutally drag him away into the night. She broke into a mysterious smile, holding out her hands so they likewise could be bound. It was a display of Percy courage the Manxmen would never forget as she was taken away to face the terrible wrath of King Magnus the Bold. ***

Rushen Abbey, August 1443 Rosalind‟s heart sank when the royal coach pulled up to the gates of the abbey orphanage. She cradled young Roan possessively, lovingly in her arms the entire distance from Peel Castle and wept silently, praying God for the forbearance to accomplish what had to done. The arrangements for Roan to dwell at the abbey were in place and she hoped, would prove to be in the best interest for the child and her own sons. Rosalind had corresponded with Moireach in far off Orkney who approved of the decision to relocate Roan to Rushen Abbey. Although Rosalind always looked forward to receiving letters from her estranged cousin, the tearstains blotting the parchment were evidence that despite her claim to be content in her new life…she longed for her son. The coachman pulled open the doors and the queen alighted. Dorset took hold of Roan as the queen approached Abbess Catherine, moving with fluid grace. Rosalind was a vision of poignant beauty with peering black onyx eyes obscured by a sheer veil, 67

held in place by a golden crown. Her long dark hair draped down her slender back over a light mantle of pale, glittering fabric. Abbess Catherine prepared to greet the queen with an obeisance but Rosalind held out her hand forbidding it. “I am but a mortal queen and you should not humble yourself to me.” “Welcome to Rushen Abbey,” Sister Catherine stated quietly, pained to see how changed the once innocent beauty had become during her reign as Vannin‟s queen. “Madame, I trust the young princes are well. I had hoped they‟d make the journey with you.” Rosalind crossed the threshold of the abbey. “Nay Moir Abb. My sons know naught of young Roan‟s existence. They must never know that Roan is their halfblood brother. The truth must remain a well-guarded secret. I fear the dissention and strife it may cause later on in life, when they are all men capable of wielding power and with a kingdom at stake.” “As you will,” the abbess agreed, directing the sisters to see to the queen‟s comfort. “You may dismiss them. I would speak with you alone.” Rosalind nodded for Dorset to leave the boy and depart with the others. Once she and the abbess were alone, they settled by the hearth fire to a goblet of wine. “He‟s a fine lad,” the abbess stated, observing the child with interest. Rosalind shifted uneasily. She glanced quickly to the open window and then back at the child. Roan explored the unfamiliar surroundings with intense curiosity. “He is very dear to me. I do not want you to think for a moment that this was an easy decision for me. I am riddled by guilt. I feel I am abandoning the boy although I know he will be cared for by you. I promised Moireach…her son would be trained for knighthood. As soon as he is of age, I shall return to claim him.”

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“I understand everything and there be no reason for you to suffer the pangs of guilt. What you‟re doing is in the best interest of the boy and your sons.” “I cannot emphasize it enough; Roan is never to know from you that he is the son of King Magnus and half-blood to my sons. Let him live happy and free amongst your charges and you shall be well compensated by my purse.” “Your Grace is already more than generous with the church establishments throughout Vannin.” “Aye, but he is kin and I will not have him lack for naught. Pray see to it Moir Abb.‖ “As you wish.” Abbess Catherine bowed her head. “Do you still wish to meet the child you discussed in your letter, the daughter of Emmanuelle Percy?” Ere she could respond, Roan had managed to climb into a seat and was reaching across the table. He was helping himself to the fruit bowl when Rosalind sprang out of her seat to fetch him. “He is swift to get into mischief and has more than enough scrapes and bumps to prove it.” “Lads are like that, Madame. No need to fret.” “At first I had my doubts about meeting the child. Yet, now that I have traveled this far… I will see Emmanuelle‟s daughter,” Rosalind replied. She took Roan in her arms as the boy chewed happily away on a luscious pear. “Your Grace, if you‟ll follow me to whither the children are at play, I‟ll grant your wish.” Rosalind followed the abbess through the door and down a dark corridor that led to a sunlit room. There were a number of children of all ages, some played rather boisterously whilst others were engrossed in calmer activities. The abbess continued on to the far end of the room where an older girl was reading to a small group of children. The queen did not need the abbess to point 69

out Emmanuelle‟s child. It was obvious by her raven-dark hair and her stark gray eyes. The child smiled when she saw the abbess and raced to her, still unsteady on her feet. “Moir Abb, flowers!” The lass giggled, pulling out a handful of mostly crushed cushags from the pocket of her apron. “How lovely Estelle. Mayhap you‟d like to share with my friends who have come to visit us today?” Estelle glanced curiously at the queen and even more so at the child by her side. The children stood face to face. Estelle offered a flower to Roan, who merely narrowed his dark eyes suspiciously and stepped back, clutching the queen‟s gown. Estelle shrank back with a pout of dejection. The sudden clang of the bell signaling rotation startled them all. It was time for the younger children to come to the table for dinner and the older children to play out in the sunshine. Estelle extended her hand to Roan. “Mmmm, eat now. Let‟s go.” Rosalind knew the time had come to take her leave of Roan. The abbess‟s expression was one of profound pity for the distraught queen. Roan grabbed hold of her. He had never been so clingy and Rosalind feared the child sensed something was amiss. “Angharad,” the abbess summoned an older lass to assist with the children. “Take them. Show Roan to the table and see that he eats. Introduce him to the others and I‟ll be in directly.” “Aye Moir Abb.” Angharad smiled cheerfully. “Welcome to Rushen Abbey wee Roan.” Rosalind bent down and placed a kiss on the boy‟s cheek. “Bless you Roan. I shall return for you. I promise.” She shot Estelle a hard glare. It was difficult for her to demonstrate any pity or good will for the child of her despised rival. She knew

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one day she would be able to tolerate Estelle, but her bitter parting from Roan made it impossible at that moment. “Mama!” Roan turned away in distress and buried his face in Rosalind‟s skirt. His protests evolved into wails as Angharad tore him from the queen‟s side and carried him out of the room. He was gone ere Rosalind could recant. The queen could no longer withhold her tears and sobbed pitifully. Abbess Catherine rushed to console her; assuring her Roan would be well cared for and would adjust to his new home in little time. Heartbroken, Queen Rosalind bid the abbess farewell and took her leave. She had much work left to do at Peel Castle; Prince Alban‟s coronation was two days away. Then Queen Rosalind faced the difficult task of turning a mild mannered boy into a mighty king.

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Welcome to her website, Lovers Beckon www.loversbeckon.com GLORIA WIEDERHOLD is a native New Yorker raised in the Throgs Neck section of the Bronx. Her favorite haunts are Pelham Bay Park, especially when transformed into a winter wonderland and the New York Botanical Gardens, a joy to behold in her favorite season, autumn. Gloria was a child with a vivid imagination, perfectly content to spend hours drawing and scribbling away while others played outside. She was the master storyteller able to convince her peers faeries were real, bring a tear to the eye with a sorrowful tale, or cause her cousins to bolt out of a room screaming at one of her ghost stories. It seemed natural that she would pursue the arts. She attended the High School of Art and Design and then moved on to earn a BFA from the School of Visual Arts . She was employed as a photo researcher with The Image Bank for over a decade where she became impassioned with the power of photography to tell a story. She later took on the roles of employee, wife, mother and graduate student. In May 2003 hard work and perseverance earned her an MSED in Early Childhood Education leading to a career transition as a preschool teacher. Now Gloria spends every spare moment engrossed in her true passion, writing historical romances set during the medieval era. She is 72

an avid Anglophile, especially drawn to the War of the Roses with a particular interest in the life of Richard III. Her writing is heavily influenced by Arthurian Legend, Celtic mythology, heroic Nordic epics and the paranormal.

Red Rose Publishing: The Hearts of Ellan Vannin Prologue: Journey to Ruination Epilogue: Aftermath of Conquest Coming Soon! The Gift Samhain Publishing: The Hearts of Ellan Vannin Trilogy Available Now! Book 1: The Songbird of Rushen Abbey Book 2: Roan of Ellan Vannin Book 3: Noble Hearts of Ellan Vannin

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