A mysterious dark age Irish king

I set out to write a story involving the Picts of ancient Scotland and I ended up writing a trilogy that revolved around an Irish clan and a vengeful goddess. After discovering Aedan mac Gabrain, it was hard to resist basing my hero on him.

After coming under pressure from the powerful Ui Neill clan in Ireland, the clan Gabrain came to Scotland (known then as Alba) in about 500 AD to form the kingdom of Dal Riata in what is now Argyle. There were two other clans, but the kings from clan Gabrain served as the high kings of Dal Riata. The Dal Riata clans had embraced Christianity while most of Alba had not.

Aedan mac Gabrain became king of Dal Riata in about 574, picked to be king by the famous St. Columba. This Irish king was known as the most feared warlord of his time by his contemporaries—the British King Riderch, King Urien of Rheged and King Morcant of Gododdin. They formed the Northern Alliance to battle the Picts and Angles. Aedan grew up around the River Forth, his younger years shrouded in mystery. What fascinated me most about Aedan mac Gabrain was that he supposedly fathered a king of the Picts, yet there are recorded battles between him and the Picts. Did he fight against his own son or did he help his son? Also, in the Welsh poems he is called ‘Aedan the Treacherous’ for invading King Riderch’s stronghold, but it doesn’t explain what led to this behavior.

Another thing that fascinated me about Aedan was that in a time when people died young, he lived to be at least 74. And he was present on the battlefield at 70. There is no record of his death, only that after his final battle and defeat at Degsastan, he was no longer king. The clan Gabrain has another notable legacy—Kenneth MacAlpin, the first recorded king of Scotland, is believed to be descended from this clan.

How could I resist such a fascinating historical figure?

For my hero, I saw Aedan as a shrewd, formidable man, two important requirements for a successful king in a time of shifting alliances, betrayal and determined enemies. In my mind, his mate would have to be strong-minded to match his wit and strength. I decided to make her a pagan, which would be the cause of much conflict between them.

And much to my delight I was still able to write a story with the Picts since Aedan had a connection to them.

Excerpt from Beltaine’s Song, Book 2, Dark Goddess Trilogy:

He let go of Galan and turned to Domelch, pressing his mouth close to her ear, his voice harsh with anger. “If ye want anything to do with the likes of him, then so be it, but I will not put up with his insolence any longer.”

Galan swayed on his feet, looking taken aback by Aedan's sudden attack.

“Mordag, see to it that my brother gets to his bed safely,” Domelch ordered, hurrying to catch up to Aedan.

“We need to discuss this.”

“Not now. I am tired.” Aedan kept walking at a fast pace up the path to their dun. The lamps lining the path flickered erratically as he passed them.

“Even if he remembers who I was before, that means nothing. I love you.” She panted, trying to keep up with his quick stride.

“I saw him touch ye under the table, and ye did not stop him.”

“I—I was shocked by his behavior and slow to react, that's all.”

“It is obvious that he is still obsessed with ye.” He quickened his pace.

“Aedan, please stop,” she said, struggling to keep up with his quick stride. “He was obsessed with Cardea. She no longer exists.”

He turned to look at her. “I am not so certain about that. Of late I see flickers of her inside of ye. I saw her cold ruthlessness during Comran’s interrogation and in our bedchamber…”

She turned her head away from the flickering light, hoping the night would shield her eyes so she wouldn't reveal her struggle against her dark past. “You seem to have no objections in our bedchamber.”

He stopped. His hot breath warmed her cheek. “Tell me that ye feel nothing for him and I will let it go.”

“I—I feel only brotherly love for him.”

“He is not yer brother. Tell me ye feel nothing for him, for the man who kidnapped ye and...and forced himself on ye.”

She could not. She knew that she should hate Galan for he did all those terrible things to her, but…that part of her that she thought lost had enjoyed it. She didn't love him. She never did, but she did care for him for he had shown her kindness later when she needed help, when she had no one else to turn to.

“I thought as much.” His face looked frightening in the flickering light, his jaw set in anger.

“A part of me cares for him, but I have given up everything for you. I renounced my Goddess, betrayed Cailleach and accepted your Christian ways.”

“Ye were nothing but a demon. If anything, I saved ye.”

His arrogant tone enraged her. “You saved me? Ha. You were the one cursed living like a miserable hermit in the forest.”

“We were both cursed if I remember it correctly.”

“I was perfectly happy as I was.”

“I think not. Ye were a wretched soul until I came along.”

Anger rose inside of her, anger only Aedan could raise. The blood rushed to her face, ringing in her ears. “If you want me to hate you, then you have succeeded.” She turned to flee from him.

He grabbed her arm, pulling her back into his body. “Hate me, do ye?”

Her pulse raced and her body flushed from anger. “Yes.” She struggled against him, but the hardness of his male body aroused her and she felt his erection pressing against her. She wanted to feel nothing for him, her anger making her stubborn, but her body betrayed her, tingling in places she had no control over. She stopped struggling and submitted to his touch, falling limp in his arms.

“Yer body does not hate me,” he whispered, crushing his lips to her mouth, kissing her roughly.

Anger turned into passion. Her body burned with desire underneath his touch.

Kelley Heckart, Historical fantasy romance author

Captivating...Sensual...Otherworldly

http://www.kelleyheckart.com

http://kelleysrealm.blogspot.com/

http://twitter.com/CelticChick

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Kelley-Heckart/111838455604

A Greek vampire, Celtic kings, vengeful goddesses, an ancient faery curse…

All three books of my Dark Goddess trilogy are available in Print and Ebook. Set in Dark Age Scotland, I mixed history with a Samhain/Beltaine myth that revolves around an Irish clan and the goddesses Brigit and Cailleach.

http://kelleyheckart.com/BookShelf.html

COME BACK AGAIN TO IRELAND

In the interest of having this done so no one has to blog backwards, and giving you the HEA, I am finishing up today this spontaneous autobiography which shows one evolution of a writer.  Do you have your own story?  Feel free to leave particulars under Comments.  I think it's always fascinating to read what gave authors their drive to publish.  My muse was instrumental in mine and even though we have a love/hate relationship, I think it's worth it:

I read those books Seph left me, after all.  In the middle of the nights, when I awoke now because it was time to administer another IV, I read them to the accompaniment of the drip/drip of the IV pump.  The house was otherwise silent because my husband was only semi-conscious, being kept alive by the power of those drips, and I needed a book for company.  Nothing too heavy, mind you.  I didn't want to be too distracted in case the dripping stopped...or his heart did.

So I read away the nights:  Johanna Lindsay, Bertrice Small, Laura Kinsale.  There were too many others to name.  They consumed my time and my mind, or what was left of it.  In accordance with my husband's wishes, I had opted to pursue the euphemistically-termed "home death."  The social worker warned this would take a terrible toll on me, but I knew that.  I was a social worker, too.  I told myself I was ready for it.

Dave's heart finally stopped early one evening in March.  Dear friends sat with me as we played the classical music he loved and ate the pizza he loved, too.  We told ourselves that he would have wanted it that way, and I knew he would.  Dave wasn't into mourning.  His little dog lay on the bed with him until the end, and I did too, and then it was over. Just before spring.  Just as Seph had told me it would be.

I wondered if Seph would come to the funeral, but she didn't  She had never been welcome in that house, only sneaking down the flue or through a crack in the window whenever she could get in, and I guess she decided if she wasn't good enough for Dave in life she surely wasn't good enough for him in death.

Now that I had the time for her, I had no muse.

I stayed busy.  There were things to do, many things.  And bills to pay, many bills.  Oh, and I had surgery three times.  Yeah, I had been pretty busy while my husband was dying, too busy to take care of my own health, and I paid the price.  Big time.

Eventually things settled down.  Way down.  There was still no muse, my time was very much my own and I lost track of it.  I lost track of a lot of things.  When I looked in the mirror, I looked just like Seph the last time I had seen her.  Burned.

A strangely haunting tune began whining away in the back of my mind, never quite getting to the front but always there just like those voices my mother had heard.  Uh-oh.  Those voices had nothing to do with Second Sight.  There was a difference between The Sight and clinical depression or worse.  Jeez Louise.  Was I going to end up like my mother?

Well, apparently not if my Nana could help it.  Years before, Nana had told me I would have a hard life.  That wasn't difficult to predict, seeing that I had a mother with essentially untreated bipolar disorder.  They really weren't into calling it that in those days.  Then it was called Manic Depression and treated with Lithium, only Mom couldn't tolerate Lithium because it was hard on the kidneys and she had already damaged hers with heavy alcohol consumption.  Then the doctor recommended shock therapy, but my father said if he wanted his wife electrocuted he could just give her a fork to stick in the toaster.  No electro-shock, though from what I heard of it in later years I decided probably Dad was right.

In any case, Nana had told me when everything seemed to be lost to go to Ireland and I would find my way again.  I was just enough my mother's daughter to listen.  My father's genes protested furiously that I would be wasting my time--not to mention all that money!--but between the sage counsel of my grandmother and the psychotic delusions of my mother I was just wise enough and just crazy enough to get on a plane bound for Ireland, where I didn't know a soul.  Or at least that's what I thought.

That music in the back of my head had been Celtic music, and I knew even before the plane touched down at Shannon that I was home.

Ireland saved my sanity, though at first it didn't seem that way.  At first it was a matter of sitting in The Laurels Pub in Killarney, a wonderful place I remember with great fondness except that I nursed too-numerous mugs of Guinness stout there.  My fault entirely.  I didn't even like Guinness.  Mom had liked rye and vodka.  Oh, man, did she like vodka--which was probably why I avoided it.  But the end result would be the same.  I was avoiding mirrors again because I didn’t like the way I looked.  Unlike my mother, though, I had an innate ability to “just say no.”  So I did.  I started drinking what the Irish call fizzy water--seltzer water--with lime.  And Pepsi with lemon.  And then because my mad escapade hadn't left me with enough money to buy a laptop, I bought a bunch of yellow legal pads a la J.K. Rowling and went to find Seph.  I damn well knew she was in Ireland.  She had to be.  Why else had I come?

I found her in a peat bog.  A peat bog?  Oh, well, I guessed that was appropriate.  And oddly enough--just like me, once I just said no--she looked healed.  She looked...peaceful.  No more drippy lava, no  sparking eyeballs.  She smiled and pointed to the yellow legal pad in my hand and then to a sheep pasture overlooking the Aran Islands and the Atlantic Ocean my grandmother had crossed to get to America.  OK, maybe I would just sit there and try to write.

My pen hit the paper and I started:

"I was the King's daughter once, so many years ago that sometimes now it is hard to remember. Before the tide of time carried away so many things, so many people, it was worth something to be the daughter of a King.

"Our little island nation of Alcinia was not rich, except for tin mines honeycombing the south. It wasn't even hospitable. Summer was a brief affair and fall was only a short time of muted colors on the northernmost coast where my father sat his throne at the ancient Keep of Landsfel. Winter was the killing time and spring was hardly better, with frosts that could last into Fifth-Month. But from the south, where men cut thatch in a pattern like the bones of fish, to the north where rock roses spilled down cliffs to the sea, it was my own.

“One thinks such things will never change, yet all things do."

What the hell?  That was no poem.  I looked up, startled, and there was Persephone, black hair gleaming against her red gown.  Still no lava although her nails were still bright red.  With one of those gleaming, lacquered nails, she pointed imperiously to my paper and said one word.  "Write."

I wrote until I had 130,000 words.  And then I wrote another 103,000 words.  The first book I called, "The King's Daughter."  The second book, its sequel, I named "Heart of the Earth."  And then, like my grandmother, I crossed the Atlantic Ocean to America.

I got on a plane and flew back to America, since unlike my muse's crow and my blackbird I had no other way to get there.  Nana had come by steamer (first class, of course, with her mother's china), but those days were gone.  Now Aer Lingus took me back to New York, where I can't say I was especially glad to be.  The air pollution made my eyes as red as Wench … er … sorry … Persephone’s at her worst.  I did get to spend time at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, hanging out with guys in mail, which almost made it all worthwhile.

I got a computer.  I got an email address which I had to abbreviate from my friends' whimsically-inspired "Miriam's in Ireland."  I tried to get a publisher.  Or an agent. BUWAHAHA!  We all know how easy THOSE are to get.  I didn't know diddly.  I especially didn't know if you tell them you're a poet they run screaming in the other direction.  Our reputation precedes us.

Persephone was no help.  Apparently she had stayed in Ireland.  Finally, since I had concluded writing romance took a high degree of skill and maybe I was missing something, I joined Romance Writers of America and Valley Forge Romance Writers.  Then I got online and an editor found me.  Seriously.  She read my first paragraphs, then my first chapters, then the whole bloody book--in one night--and then she wanted it.

That was The King's Daughter, presently available on my web site www.miriamnewman.com.  The sequel is there, too.

Once I signed the contract, Seph came back.  She really is a wench, but all is forgiven because she brought another nine books with her.  Ten, if you count the one I'm writing now.  It’s set in Norway.  Now do you suppose if I went to Caithness, northernmost point in Scotland, from where a ferry leaves most days for Norway, and I took a yellow legal pad and…

”SEPH!  COME ON!  WE’RE LEAVING!”

Miriam Newman

www.miriamnewman.com

comwww.thecelticroseblog.blogspot.com

Glancing Through the Glimmer / Pat McDermott

Greetings to everyone here at The Celtic Rose, and special thanks to Miriam for her hospitality today, the release day for Glancing Through the Glimmer. I'm Pat McDermott, author of the "Band of Roses" trilogy*, romantic action/adventure novels set in an Ireland still ruled by the heirs of High King Brian Boru.

Glancing Through the Glimmer is the young adult "prequel" to this trilogy. Don’t let the young adult label put you off! Readers of all ages will enjoy "Glimmer"—as long as they love Irish myths, adventure, romance, and a hefty wallop of fairy magic. (On Sunday, I’ll randomly choose one commenter to receive a PDF copy of the book. Please leave your email address if you’d like a chance to win.)

So where did the title come from? Glancing Through the Glimmer is a phrase from The Fairy Thorn, an old Ulster poem by Sir Samuel Ferguson that begins innocently enough:

Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel;

For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep;

Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland-reel

Around the fairy thorn on the steep.

Don’t listen, Anna! Everyone knows if you dance around a fairy thorn, the fairies will steal you away. Especially in County Galway, the home of Finvarra, King of the Connaught Fairies. Finvarra loves to dance, as American teenager Janet Gleason learns to her dismay.

The Blurb:

In the modern Kingdom of Ireland, few mortals believe in the fairy folk. Without that belief, the fairies are dying. Finvarra, the King of the Fairies, would rather dance than worry—but he must have a mortal dancing partner.

When Janet Gleason’s grandfather becomes the new U.S. Ambassador to Ireland, the sixteen-year-old orphan must leave Boston and her friends behind. Janet is lonely in Dublin and unused to her grandparents’ stuffy social life. An invitation to a royal ball terrifies her. She can’t even waltz and dreads embarrassment. Finvarra’s fairy witch overhears her fervent wish to learn to dance.

Seventeen-year-old Prince Liam Boru loathes the idea of escorting another spoiled American girl to a ball. In fact, he detests most of his royal duties. He dresses down to move through Dublin unnoticed and finds himself on his royal backside when Janet crashes into him. Intrigued, he asks to see her again, and she willingly agrees. Unaware of each other’s identities, they arrange to meet. When they do, the fairies steal Janet away. Liam’s attempts to find her trigger a series of frustrating misadventures. Can he and Janet outwit a treacherous fairy king who’s been hoodwinking mortals for centuries?

The Excerpt - The stunning Cliffs of Howth provide the setting for Janet and Liam’s memorable first date:

The first time Liam slipped and fell, he cursed the rain-damp grass. He blamed his second tumble on his haste to catch up with Janet. What on earth had possessed the girl to run off like that? She couldn’t possibly want to find music that badly.

Music only she could hear.

The third time he lost his balance, he’d swear someone had pushed him, but no one was there. He landed on his hands and knees and cursed again. He might not be a muscleman, but he was far from a clumsy dolt. A lifetime of sports and outdoor treks had surely left him fit enough to climb a scrubby little hillside.

Something strange was afoot.

I’m being ridiculous.

The breeze must have kept him from hearing the music she heard. She’d likely gone after the owner of whatever was playing the tune to learn its name.

Yet the Nose of Howth seemed deserted. How odd for a sunny Sunday morning. Even if Janet had gone off seeking the source of the music, no amount of rationalizing could explain why she’d left so abruptly. The chilling sense that she was in danger had Liam’s heart thumping high in his throat.

Should he call his cousin? If Kevin was still on the pier, it would take him a while to get here. And practical Kevin would surely think Liam astray in the head.

Maybe he was, but something told him he had to find Janet, and fast. Keeping close to the ground as if he were dodging radar, he clambered monkey-like up the hill. This time he reached the top of the rise. Lumps in the landscape surrounded him, clumps of rock and rolling masses of heather and gorse that encircled the level spot where he stood. He knew the place well. Except for the curious lack of weekend hill walkers, nothing seemed amiss.

"Janet!"

He listened hard. A seagull cried in the distance. Otherwise, all was silent. No, wait! Music drifted toward him, a plucky harp tune he might have enjoyed under different circumstances.

Was that what Janet had heard?

Where was it? He turned in a circle, squinting in the sunlight, scanning, straining to hear. When he returned to the spot where he’d started, a jolt of fear set his pulse racing.

A round stone hut had appeared on the highest part of the clearing. Its low thatched roof rose to a ridiculously high point. It resembled a roundhouse, the sort of dwelling that belonged in a prehistoric ring fort.

Or a fairy fort.

Liam swallowed hard. He’d seen replicas of such huts in Ireland’s folk parks. He’d also viewed ruins of the original ring forts, all that remained of the structures built by the mysterious peoples who’d lived and died in Ireland thousands of years ago.

Where had this one come from? Why was it on the Nose of Howth? Liam had never seen it before, nor had he heard of any gimmicky tourism plans for the cliff walk. Of course, he didn’t know everything. Convincing himself that he’d failed to see the hut at first because the sun had blinded him, he ventured toward the structure.

He spotted a doorway and relaxed. Janet was there, speaking to a woman wearing a period costume, medieval or older. That’s what it was, he thought: tourism come to tarnish Howth. How could Uncle Peadar have allowed such nonsense?

Liam called Janet’s name again, but neither she nor the woman showed any sign that they’d heard him. The wind must have carried his voice away. He stalked toward the roundhouse. As he approached, the costumed woman placed a necklace over Janet’s head.

The roundhouse flickered, faded, and reappeared. Alarmed, Liam stopped. This was no tourist gimmick. As his thoughts scrambled for an explanation, the woman grabbed Janet’s arm and pulled her into the hut.

"Janet, no!" His ferocious roar proved useless. Unbelievably, the roundhouse began to dissolve. No longer doubting his horrified senses, he dove at the hut and charged through the disappearing door.

The world around him melted away.

* * * *

A Little About Me:

I’m a Massachusetts native from a Boston Irish family whose music and myths have crept into my writing. One of my short stories earned an Honorable Mention for children’s fiction in the 74th Writer’s Digest Annual Writing competition. ‘Twas a big boost for my confidence! I'm a member of the New Hampshire Writers' Project, the Seacoast Writers' Association, Romance Writers of America, and Celtic Hearts Romance Writers. My favorite non-writing activities include hiking, reading, cooking (check out my cooking blog, below), and traveling, especially to Ireland. I’d love to live there some day, but for now, I call the New Hampshire seacoast home. Currently, I'm working on reuniting Janet and Liam in Autumn Glimmer, the Samhain sequel to Glancing Through the Glimmer.

A Little More:

My Web site:　www.patmcdermott.net

Put the Kettle On (My Writing/Travel Blog):  http://pat-mcdermott.blogspot.com/

My Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/pat.mcdermott1

Facebook page for Glancing Through the Glimmer (feel free to "Like" it!):
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/www.patmcdermott.net


MuseItUp Publishing Bookstore Page to purchase Glancing Through the Glimmer:
https://museituppublishing.com/bookstore2/index.php?page=shop.product_details&flypage=flypage.tpl&product_id=224&category_id=69&option=com_virtuemart&Itemid=1

Kitchen Excursions (My Cooking Blog):  http://kitchenexcursions.blogspot.com/

* * * *

*The Band of Roses Trilogy is currently unavailable. MuseItUp Publishing will publish A Band of Roses (May, 2012) and Fiery Roses (August, 2012) as re-releases. Salty Roses will make its piratical debut in November, 2012.

WE'RE ALMOST THERE!!!

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Good luck and good "hitting!"