The O'Madden: A Novella (The Celtic Legends Series) by Lisa Ann Verge Read Free Book Online

healthy and fertile.”
    Garrick knew something of history. His father had paid a priest to teach Garrick his letters, an Irish priest who’d been happy to take English coin and then teach a half-breed whelp the bloody history in his own particular way. The priest had talked to him of the brave O’Donnell’s of Tirconnel, the mighty O’Neill’s of Ulster, the fierce Maguire’s of Fermanagh—heads of the great clans. Over the years, the English had tried to destroy them and the loyalty of their people. The English had, for the most part, failed. The blood of the tribal clans ran deep.
    Garrick remembered no talk of O’Maddens.
    “The last O’Madden,” she continued, “built this castle when the English first threatened, nearly thirty years ago. He was sure a stone castle would hold out against them. It did, for some few years. But when the English came to conquer for good, the O’Madden ultimately lost the battle and he was murdered for rebelling.”
    “Such a story is common enough.”
    “I’m not done with it, Garrick of Wexford.” Her fine-boned features hardened. “The English were so frightened that another O’Madden would rise to take the dead one’s place that they decided to take all of the O’Madden’s sons—every last one of them—and hang them on the trees of the yard.” She rolled an egg into the basket. “The O’Madden’s widow cried for mercy. She fasted at the earl’s door in protest. But the Englishman ignored her.”  She paused and her jaw trembled. “They say the youngest cried for his mother as they dropped the rope around his neck. He was three years of age.”
    Garrick glanced at the trees scattered around the castle, imagining those branches hung heavy with bitter fruit, not able to fathom it. “Time can twist the truth into something it never was.”
    “Does it ease your conscience to think so?” She gripped an egg tight in her fist. “Some still live to bear witness.”
    He tightened his jaw. He couldn’t deny he’d heard worse stories. He knew little of the Earl, and nothing of the Earl’s own father, who had probably been the one to order the hangings. But how could he denounce that blood, when it was only through that blood he claimed this place?
    “The English,” she argued, placing the egg with exaggerated care into her basket, “are remembered for what they’ve done . Take it as a blessing, my lord, that I didn’t accept your proposal and mix your proud blood any further.”
    He stifled a flash of anger. “You shouldn’t judge a whole of a race of men by the sum of its rotten parts.”
    “ Then think of the Statutes of Kilkenny. The English are forbidden to marry the Irish without royal dispensation. Even half-blooded English.” Her skirt snagged on a nail protruding from the henhouse wall. She yanked at it. “You’re not even supposed to be speaking the Irish, yet I’ve not heard a word of English out of you yet.”
    “I’ve never had much of a mind for the King’s rules.”
    “Well, there’s proof there’s a little Irish in you.” She pulled her skirts free on the sound of a tear. “Alas, not enough to give me any hope.”
    “ But I have hope. Hope you’ll come to your senses and be with me.”
    “ Stop talking like that.”
    “W e’ve got more than a bit of talking to do about All Hallows’ Eve.”
    She shouldered by him so close that he felt the give of her breast against his arm. His gaze dropped to her belly, taut and flat, and he wondered if a bit of himself was still in there, growing already. No doubt it was too early to tell.
    “The less said about that night, the better, by my way of thinking. ” She brushed her gaze over him as he fell into pace beside her. “There’s no changing the past. And I would never have recognized you as his son. You’re not like the others the earl sent, mincing and prancing about in silks and stinking of perfume.”
    “The English don’t treat their bastards as generously as the Irish