Chapter 1
The west coast of Ireland, 857 AD
K onrad strode through the small village of Carrigeen in the southwest coast of Ireland, his chest puffed out, his sword sheathed in his scabbard, surveying the land he and his men had conquered.
“A fine bit of earth you have, Konrad.” Thorsten strode alongside him, his bravest soldier and friend since they were small children. “Fortunately, the village is intact, save only one cottage that burned to the ground. The men are content to have women to see to their needs and you have a ready-made roof to cover your head.”
“Indeed.” He eyed the people of Carrigeen as he surveyed his domain. The children seemed well fed, the women strong enough to plow fields, tend gardens and herd animals. What he did not see were a lot of men. “What do you make of the lack of men?”
“From the stories the women have told, they have seen many battles and those who have conquered them in the past killed their men, but did not stay long. They claimed the land was haunted and unhealthy for the Norse. Something about the water making the men sickly. The native Gaelic have built up an immunity to whatever ails newcomers.”
Konrad’s brow furrowed. This was not the news he cared to hear. The soil was rich and, from what he’d seen, the sheep and cattle were fat. If the natives and the cattle could survive on the water in Carrigeen, he and his men could.
After years of battle in his homeland of Norway and across the seas to fight the Danes, under the leadership of his older brother Ivarr, Konrad had come to this island to stake a claim for land and a home of his own. He was tired and ready to settle, take a wife, and raise children and cattle. He’d heard Ireland was a paradise of green pastures and strong women, both key ingredients to his plan.
Thus he had sailed his last journey from Dublin around the isle and let the wind carry him here to the west coast of this lush green land he’d come to love.
After a fierce battle led by a paltry lot of old men and boys barely off their mothers’ apron strings, Konrad had conquered the land upon which he planned to live out his life. He wondered that others hadn’t tried to claim this glorious place.
Ahead two women carried armloads of clothing and linens, hurrying toward a cottage.
One was a winsome beauty with light red hair cascading down her back in long luscious waves. The other was tall and raven-haired, her tresses curling down her back in glorious abandon. Her hips swayed beneath the dress broader than the redhead’s and with a determination found more often in the men he led in battle.
She handed her burden to the woman standing at the door of the cottage and spoke to her in hushed, urgent tones. The red-haired woman stood by meekly waiting for the taller one to finish.
Thorsten leaned close to Konrad. “She is a beauty.”
“Ja. Indeed she is.”
The raven-haired lovely gave her last command and motioned for the redhead to follow her to the next cottage where she again took charge, handed off the goods the redhead carried and gave her orders. When she was done, she worked her way from building to building, checking with the inhabitants.
“From what I’ve learned, the dark-haired woman is the leader of this clan. She is the widow of the previous clan leader. The red-haired beauty is her younger sister.”
Konrad had been too busy tending to the wounded and giving his dead a proper send off to Valhalla to learn more about the social structure of the people he’d conquered.
“The old man warned of her iron hand and stubborn streak. I suggest you establish your claim immediately and either send her away or make her your slave.”
Konrad frowned. “I would wish this to be my home. These people will be my people. They need to learn to trust that I will defend them against future attack and provide for their well-being.”
“The villagers seem to hold the raven-haired one in high esteem. To win them over you must
The west coast of Ireland, 857 AD
K onrad strode through the small village of Carrigeen in the southwest coast of Ireland, his chest puffed out, his sword sheathed in his scabbard, surveying the land he and his men had conquered.
“A fine bit of earth you have, Konrad.” Thorsten strode alongside him, his bravest soldier and friend since they were small children. “Fortunately, the village is intact, save only one cottage that burned to the ground. The men are content to have women to see to their needs and you have a ready-made roof to cover your head.”
“Indeed.” He eyed the people of Carrigeen as he surveyed his domain. The children seemed well fed, the women strong enough to plow fields, tend gardens and herd animals. What he did not see were a lot of men. “What do you make of the lack of men?”
“From the stories the women have told, they have seen many battles and those who have conquered them in the past killed their men, but did not stay long. They claimed the land was haunted and unhealthy for the Norse. Something about the water making the men sickly. The native Gaelic have built up an immunity to whatever ails newcomers.”
Konrad’s brow furrowed. This was not the news he cared to hear. The soil was rich and, from what he’d seen, the sheep and cattle were fat. If the natives and the cattle could survive on the water in Carrigeen, he and his men could.
After years of battle in his homeland of Norway and across the seas to fight the Danes, under the leadership of his older brother Ivarr, Konrad had come to this island to stake a claim for land and a home of his own. He was tired and ready to settle, take a wife, and raise children and cattle. He’d heard Ireland was a paradise of green pastures and strong women, both key ingredients to his plan.
Thus he had sailed his last journey from Dublin around the isle and let the wind carry him here to the west coast of this lush green land he’d come to love.
After a fierce battle led by a paltry lot of old men and boys barely off their mothers’ apron strings, Konrad had conquered the land upon which he planned to live out his life. He wondered that others hadn’t tried to claim this glorious place.
Ahead two women carried armloads of clothing and linens, hurrying toward a cottage.
One was a winsome beauty with light red hair cascading down her back in long luscious waves. The other was tall and raven-haired, her tresses curling down her back in glorious abandon. Her hips swayed beneath the dress broader than the redhead’s and with a determination found more often in the men he led in battle.
She handed her burden to the woman standing at the door of the cottage and spoke to her in hushed, urgent tones. The red-haired woman stood by meekly waiting for the taller one to finish.
Thorsten leaned close to Konrad. “She is a beauty.”
“Ja. Indeed she is.”
The raven-haired lovely gave her last command and motioned for the redhead to follow her to the next cottage where she again took charge, handed off the goods the redhead carried and gave her orders. When she was done, she worked her way from building to building, checking with the inhabitants.
“From what I’ve learned, the dark-haired woman is the leader of this clan. She is the widow of the previous clan leader. The red-haired beauty is her younger sister.”
Konrad had been too busy tending to the wounded and giving his dead a proper send off to Valhalla to learn more about the social structure of the people he’d conquered.
“The old man warned of her iron hand and stubborn streak. I suggest you establish your claim immediately and either send her away or make her your slave.”
Konrad frowned. “I would wish this to be my home. These people will be my people. They need to learn to trust that I will defend them against future attack and provide for their well-being.”
“The villagers seem to hold the raven-haired one in high esteem. To win them over you must
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