Chapter 1. Raiders from the Mist. Sixteen-year-old Patrick felt the cool tingle of the wet grass on his feet as he strolled through his father's farm on this late spring morning. As was typical for the West Coast of Britain, dense fog enveloped all of the hills and farm buildings. Patrick was excited that his parents had let him stay at their country villa while his father took care of business in London. He had assured them that he was old enough to take care of himself and would be just fine.
Besides, he would be in the company of their many servants. As his sandal-covered feet sloshed through the moist green grass, Patrick's thoughts were on horses and his formal education that would begin in a few weeks. Patrick wasn't looking forward to his schooling at all—nothing but endless drills, memorization, and study. Those things were okay for the bookish boys, but Patrick was a man of action, not books. "People say I'm an empty-headed dreamer, but they'll see.
Someday I'll be Governor of Britain," Patrick said to himself as he tossed his blonde hair with an air of importance. He stopped on a grassy knoll and drank in the sweet fragrance of spring. The aroma of the damp, rich earth, laced with the perfumed scent of lilacs, tantalized his nostrils. To the east, he could barely make out the outline of his father's barn. He imagined it to be the governor's palace, where he would live someday. To the north, he could faintly see the outlines of the grazing cows.
He pretended they were prized stallions from Arabia. Turning to the west, Patrick visualized that he was addressing an adoring crowd of his fellow Britons. In the gray fog, he imagined he could see the throng in front of him. He could faintly make out their bodies and faces. They seemed so real. But of course, he was just imagining things. Or was he? He rubbed his eyes for a few seconds and scrutinized the fog again, hoping it was simply a mirage.
However, the ghostly figures were still there, and they seemed to be approaching him. Suddenly, several blood-curdling shrieks emerged from the fog, followed by the terrifying blast of discordant battle horns. Patrick stood frozen with fear as the phantom figures suddenly materialized from the fog, brandishing swords and spears, heading straight for him. Recovering from his initial shock, Patrick turned and ran as fast as he could towards his parents' villa. Everywhere, pandemonium reigned.
Women screamed, dogs barked, sheep bleated and ran in terror. Servants blindly raced about in the fog like a flock of chickens scattered by a pack of dogs. Those who tried to resist the armed warriors were mercilessly hacked to death or impaled with spears. Patrick darted nimbly toward the outer courtyard of the villa, his heart beating wildly. He dared not look back. "I've got to make it through the gates before they catch me.
Once I barricade the gates, I'll be safe." However, as Patrick approached the heavy oak gates, he suddenly stopped and alarmed. Another band of warriors was already waiting there. Patrick whirled around to run to the hills, but instead he ran pell-mell into a pursuing raider. Although he was an athletic youth, he was no match for the tall, muscular warrior. The man grabbed him by his shoulders and threw him roughly to the ground. Patrick landed hard on his back, and his head fell against a large stone.
Everything went black. When he came to himself, he was in great pain. His hands were tightly bound, and his legs were shackled. Several warriors stood around him, jabbering excitedly. A warrior kicked him in the side and shouted orders in an unfamiliar language, suffocating Patrick with his stinking breath. From the burly man's gestures, Patrick guessed that he was supposed to stand up. Grimacing in pain, he staggered to his feet. He soon joined a long line of pitiful prisoners being led toward the nearby coast.
Prodded by the spears and swords of their captors, the prisoners slipped and stumbled their way down a rocky sheep path to a small rock-strewn beach. The raiders forced their prisoners to sit in a circle on the beach while they engaged in a heated discussion. Patrick recognized the face of Marcella among the hundreds of prisoners. She had been his nursemaid when he was younger. He instinctively sat down next to her. "Who are these devils?" he asked her in a hushed tone. "Irish," she answered back.
"But you don't need to whisper. They can't understand us." Patrick took a quick survey of the scene around him. Several piles of booty lay on the beach. He recognized some of his parents' bronze and silver vessels in one of the piles. Scanning the faces of his fellow prisoners, he realized that he knew most of them. Many of his parents' servants were here, along with some of their rural neighbors with their servants. "What are they going to do to us?" Patrick asked loudly in a panic-stricken voice.
"They'll probably sacrifice us to their gods," an older woman cried nervously. She was pale and trembling. "What nonsense," Marcella scoffed. "They'll only hold us for ransom." Although terrified herself, Marcella instinctively tried to comfort the boy who had once been in her charge. "No," one of the farmhands exclaimed angrily.
"I've heard tales from the soldiers of how the Irish locked their prisoners of war in huge wicker baskets and set the whole thing on fire, burning their prisoners alive." On hearing this, Patrick's chest tightened, and his mouth went dry. "Oh, be quiet. Can't you see you're scaring the poor lad?" Marcella snapped back at the man. Then, turning to Patrick, she added, "They may do that to soldiers they capture, but not to people like us. We're not worth sacrificing to their gods." She gave Patrick a reassuring smile.
"Besides, they'll well know that a patrician's son like yourself will fetch a large ransom. So don't worry, I'm sure they won't harm you." Patrick was glad for Marcella's company. It was comforting to know she would be with him, even though he was sorry for her sake that she had been captured too. "But won't the Roman soldiers be here any minute to rescue us?" he asked her anxiously. "Patrick, you know only too well that there are hardly any Roman soldiers left in these parts.
Besides, these warriors have struck with such lightning speed, they'll probably be gone and us with them before the people at Bannavem hear of the raid." On hearing this, Patrick struggled furiously against his bonds, but he succeeded only in rubbing his wrists and ankles raw and bloody. He thought of his parents and fought back bitter tears as he wondered whether he would ever see them again. He suddenly began screaming at the warriors at the top of his lungs, "You dirty pigs! Wait till the soldiers catch you!
They'll get every one of you!" Although not understanding what Patrick was yelling, one of the raiders darted over and cuffed him so hard that he fell on his back. A deep gash on his lip began to ooze blood. The man would have probably hit Patrick again, but he was interrupted by shouts from the other warriors. Motioning the prisoners to the boats, the raiders piled in their loots and abruptly cast off. Patrick lay huddled in the bottom of one of the boats with a number of other prisoners.
Marcella had made it a point to stay with him. The warriors bent their strong backs to the weights of their long, narrow-bladed oars, and the light, skin-covered boat nosed its way through the gray-blue sea. The fog had lifted, and the gulls overhead followed the boats, crying mournfully. Before long, the raiders raised their sails, which caught a brisk wind. The cold ocean sprayed warriors and prisoners alike as the boat moved swiftly and giddily through the Irish Sea.
It dipped and pitched wildly as it rode one long, cresting swell after another. His head reeling and his stomach nauseous, Patrick vomited uncontrollably. Several other prisoners did likewise. Patrick lay in the bottom of the ship, groaning. He could feel the skin-covered bottom of the boat undulate with the tug of the sea like the breathing of some hideous sea monster. The boats reeked of vomit and sweat, and Patrick felt dizzy and nauseous the rest of that long day.
About mid-afternoon, the sky turned a cold gray, and a heavy rain began to fall. Patrick looked around the boat for some kind of shelter, but there was none. "We'd usually be eating right now," Patrick said wistfully to Marcella. "I wonder if the news about us has reached father and mother yet. Do you think they'll send a boat after us?" "I don't know," Marcella said softly. "Let's hope so." Darkness found Patrick's rain-drenched body shivering on the floor of the boat.
Angry, exhausted, and cold, he finally fell asleep as the boat continued its journey across the Irish Sea. He slept fitfully on the cold, uncomfortable ship's floor. Sharp pains stabbed his side where the warrior had kicked him. He awoke several times during the long, dark night as the boat pitched, throwing him into his own pool of vomit.
Moving away from the reeking mess, Patrick lay there, listening to the roaring of water, the thrashing of heavy spray, the thundering of the sails, and the occasional navigational cries of the warriors guiding the boat. The misery of his situation seemed to double the hours. Finally, he fell back into a deep, exhausted sleep. The morning sun finally pried his eyes open. However, the light did little more than reveal the outline of the boat that was his prison.
Hunger began to gnaw at his stomach, and his parched throat yearned for water. "I'm so hungry, Marcella," he complained. "I haven't eaten anything for a whole day, and I lost my last meal yesterday morning." Marcella moved next to Patrick. "I know, dear child. I'm starved as well. But we'll reach land soon, and then I'm sure they'll give us something to eat. Remember, we're valuable cargo to them.
Watch and see, they'll take care of us." When all of the prisoners had been aroused, the warriors gave each of them a ladle of water from a wooden bucket, which the prisoners gulped down thirstily. The hours wore on until at last one of the raiders gave a boisterous shout, indicating he had spotted land. Patrick raised his head and caught his first glimpse of Ireland. Sheer, black walls of basalt reared out of the water like the ramparts of an impregnable citadel.
Noisy shearwaters and puffins nested along the ledges and cracks. Below the birds, the furious sea hurled itself against the cliffs. The water glinted gray and foamy as it whirled around the charcoal-black rocks. The air was pungent with the odor of kelp and saltwater. Soon their boat was gliding silently into a small cove, followed by some of the other boats. Several men jumped into the cold, shallow water and pulled the boats onto the narrow beach. The warriors motioned impatiently to the prisoners to get out.
Patrick soon found himself stumbling along with the others up a slippery, narrow passageway to the top of some cliffs. The party rested for a moment once they reached the crest. Patrick gazed eastward across the sea, his blue eyes squinting as they combed the water. "Looking for a rescue boat?" Marcella asked sympathetically as she caught her breath. "Yes, I was," Patrick replied, shaking his head in disappointment. "But all I see is cold, gray water." "Don't fret.
We'll all be home soon, I'm sure of it," Marcella reassured him. "Now, if I could only convince myself of that," Marcella thought as she looked away. After a few moments' rest, the prisoners were prodded forward on their journey away from the sea. The pitiful band of captives trekked on, looking like a procession of the damned from hell. They marched over fern-covered hills and through U-shaped valleys until they finally reached their destination at the long house of an Irish king.
At first, upon seeing the palisade fence that circled the king's house, Patrick sighed a momentary relief, glad that his weary march was nearing an end. However, his sighs soon turned to cries of horror. There, hanging gruesomely over the wooden gate, were five human heads.