Love's Battle (True Blue Trilogy) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  True Blue Trilogy Lifeline

  Life 7: 1484-1561 Italy/Portugal; 77 years

  Revelation

  One Week Later

  Visitor

  Birth

  Beginnings

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  “And when life’s sweet fable ends;

  A word about the author...

  Other Books You Might Like

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Love’s Battle

  by

  Angela Hayes

  True Blue Trilogy, Book One

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Love’s Battle

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Angela Lynn Hayes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Tamra Westberry

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Faery Rose Edition, 2014

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-304-9

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-305-6

  True Blue Trilogy, Book One

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my mom.

  At a time when I need words the most,

  they fail me.

  I love you.

  ~*~

  To my husband.

  For your love, support, and encouragement.

  True Blue Trilogy Lifeline

  Life 1: 840-887 Scotland; 45 years

  F- Creideamah (Ean) H- Dochas (Lachlan)

  L- Gra (Kenneth)

  Black hair with white forelocks, purple eyes

  ****

  Life 2: 921- 963 Norway; 42 years

  F- Nakia (Erik) H- Anali (Viggo) L- Caresse (Dyre)

  Blonde hair, brown eyes

  ****

  Life 3: 1036-1090 Hungary/Scotland; 54 years

  F- Caismhne (Jedrek) H- Ailsa (Fiachra)

  L-Vevina (Riordan)

  Brown hair, blue eyes

  ****

  Life 4: 1100-1152 Belgium; 52 years

  F- Sabeen (Valin) H- Taraji (Bazyli)

  L- Zofia (Stanislaw)

  Blonde hair with blue eyes

  ****

  Life 5: 1182-1242 France/ England; 60 years

  F- Gaea (William) H- Kyra (Benjamin)

  L- Thalia (Marcell)

  Black hair with green eyes

  ****

  Life 6: 1290-1358 Russia; 68 years

  F- Vera (Basil) H- Nadezha (Grigory)

  L- Liubov (Ruslan)

  Blonde hair, hazel eyes

  ****

  Life 7: 1484-1561 Italy/Portugal; 77 years

  F- Euphrosyne (Kalei Ruzgar) H- Veda (Malik Ruzgar) L- Cerys (Aslan Niamon)

  Red hair, gray eyes

  ****

  Life 8: 1674-1692- Ipswich, Massachusetts (Essex County); 18 years

  F- Olthea (Liam Farris) H- Karis (Elijah Hardy)

  L- Darla (?)

  Brown hair with brown eyes

  ****

  Life 9: 1704-1783 - Poland/Spain; 79 years

  F- Inaya (Marcelino) H- Aglaea

  L- Adabella (Rodolfo Chavez)

  Black hair, purple eyes.

  ****

  Life 10: 1861-1945- Cincinnati, Ohio/Washington D.C.; 83 years

  F- Leala (Jeremy Ryland) H- Calla (Quentin Roosevelt) L- Minna (Boyd Turpin)

  Red hair with green eyes

  ****

  Life 11: 1987- 2077- Annapolis, MD; 90 years

  Current Life

  ~~~

  List of Quotes

  Pg. 2- Source unknown

  Pg. 95- Muhammed Ali

  Pg. 98- Howard Cosell

  Pg. 112, 117, 119, 123, 125 - Lyrics from

  “Matchmaker” Fiddler On The Roof

  Prelude

  Pilgrimage

  It calls to us twice each life; this vast and enchanted land of our birth.

  With its hills of rolling green carpet, towering scaly crags, and deep crystalline lochs, we feel an undeniable and unerring pull. Like the sweet arms of a lover drawing us into his comforting embrace following the end of a long awaited absence the rich and eerie tones of the bagpipe echo throughout the Highlands.

  Around us, tombstones, age worn by the passing of years, wiped clean by the uncaring hands of wind and rain stand guard; faceless witnesses to our reunion. As the stars rise high the night breeze picks up, carrying with it the ghostly whispers of salutations from friends and family jubilant at our return.

  The fog, tangible wisps of pearl colored breath creeps in. Enveloping our private gathering it shields us from any prying eyes that would bear witness to the nights’ events.

  In the dim glow of the lantern’s light we work in silence. No words need to be spoken, we’ve done this before. Three parts of one whole, our young muscles fluid with power and grace, we work in tandem; one rendering echoed again and again.

  With gloved grips we hold tight to our shovels, our warm breath visible in the frosty night air as the pungent smell of disturbed Earth fills our nostrils. Full bodied and pure in flavor, the scent intensifies with every measure of Scottish soil that we remove from the growing hole at our feet.

  This is the first pilgrimage of our newest life. It’s December twenty-first, two thousand and five. Our birthday. We are eighteen and in the eyes of the modern world we are now adults.

  In every life we make this journey. A family tradition of sorts, we make it as much for guidance sake in the unknown future that stretches before us, as for the bitter sweet memories the past holds in its fragile and finicky grip.

  It has been nearly twelve hundred year
s since our original conception and birth. During this time our bodies and names have changed with each life that we’ve been given. Our souls and the purpose behind our existence have not. They are eternal and without end.

  This is our eleventh life.

  In the unending years that our souls have roamed this Earth there has never been, nor will there ever be, a power stronger than that of true love. Lasting through the centuries it grows stronger with every day we live, with every hour that passes, with every breath that we take. Able to encompass everything a person is, shaping the future of all those around them, blessing the lives of everyone they touch with untold joy. This is why we are here once again. It is the very reason we were born.

  Hearing the telltale muffled clank of metal kissing metal we set aside our shovels to pull the tarp covered trunk from its long dormant grave.

  Housed inside the tarnished coffer, buried deep and undisturbed for the last sixty years are the antediluvian images of everything we are and everyone we’ve been.

  Brushing dirt and grim from the ornately worked padlock we pull back the rusted lid, the hinges screeching their protest from the many years of disuse, to reveal three smaller chests nestled safely inside.

  Waiting within each are what remains of the moments that time has all but forgotten. Personal relics, written accounts, and cherished keepsakes. The very presence of which honor the memories of the lives that we’ve lived, the husbands that we’ve loved and the children that we’ve raised. They are sentimental tokens that we can’t see embarking on the next stage of our lives without.

  For though the Bible quotes a thousand years as being a yesterday in God’s eyes, we feel all too real the passing of time.

  Our memories are long and exact, the recall of our earlier lifetimes perfect and unblemished. And still we find untold comfort in the existence of these tokens. They serve as reminders of where we have been and advisors as to where we will go. They are the permanent parts of our lives.

  As always the unveiling of the ancient container has once again brought forth the strongest of memories that will never fade…the remembrance of our creation. Where in the warmth and light of a fire that fought against the cold darkness of night our mother made a promise to our father. A promise that would endure for all eternity.

  It was eight hundred and forty-two AD, a time when those in power would stake their primordial claims and from their efforts kingdoms would rise up and take shape. It was a time when magic played its part many times over in the destiny of those who dared to love.

  In telling you our story, I must first tell you that of our parents. A love story for the generations, theirs is a true love that knows no time. A pure love that knows no end…they are forever and everlasting…they are Cinaed and Riona.

  Revelation

  The day was done and there was nothing left for Grandmother to do but twiddle her aging thumbs.

  She did so as she warmed herself by the fire and when her thumbs grew tired she was content to imagining scenes in the dancing flames. It was a rather boring way to pass the time as she waited for her granddaughter to come home.

  When the lass finally did it was with little fanfare.

  Not one to sneak around, she walked in just a bold as you please hanging her cloak in its place among the row of pegs as if naught was amiss.

  “An’ where have ya been, lass?” Grandmother asked from her seat at the table where she nursed a cup of warm mulled wine. It had become her chosen place to wait out the night after the dancing flames had become too confusing.

  “Out. My chores were done. My time my own.”

  The old maid nodded, reading between the lines. Taking a gulp of cooling ale she wiped her mouth with the back of hand. The night wind that blew in with her granddaughter brought with it winters weakening bite and set her old bones to aching, making her cranky. “’Twas time you spent with him wasn‘t it ! Och, dinna bother to deny it lass. I can see with my own eyes that you have.”

  In the dim light Grandmother’s rheumy eyes sharpened and lit where it mattered most. The girls’ lips were swollen, bright pink no doubt from a bout of kissing. And there was no mistaking the stain of lusts’ blush upon her heated cheeks or the leaves and straw that peppered her beautiful flaxen hair. And her eyes, the ones that dared to match her stare for stare, were a unique lavender. The same shade as Scottish heather.

  Silently the old woman sent a prayer of thanks heavenward that the pleats in the girls’ plaid were not mussed and had not been rearranged. Bless the Christ, things had yet to go too far. But time, Grandmother feared, was doomed to repeat itself.

  Pride pricked at such an inventory, the girls’ chin came up in defiance. Her back straight as a lance, her eyes shooting daggers of rebelliousness.

  This woman-child born from her own blood had long been both a source of pride and sorrow for Grandmother. Though she would rather have her tongue cut out that admit it, Riona was special.

  Unlike the other girls a fabled lie would not fall from her golden tongue. Nor would she use her feminine wiles to get her way as many her age did when they discovered the way in which men lusted after their curved bodies as they blossomed into womanhood. Neither did Riona use weak tears to her advantage, choosing instead to stand her ground dry eyed and strong. Going toe to toe she was not afraid to battle will to will if need be. And if that wasn’t enough to turn the tide in her favor, Riona was hard headed enough to wait out her adversary until they caved, done in, by sheer boredom.

  Unashamed by what she felt growing inside her heart, Riona’s voice was strong when she answered, “Aye.” causing the ale in the old crone’s stomach to curdle.

  “Foolish girl! Cinaed mac Alpin will do naught but cause ya heartache.”

  “I love him and he loves me!” Riona declared, much as young girls her age were wont to do when a young man catches their fancy.

  Grandmother expected no less. Oh the imprudence of young love. They think they have all the answers. Hadn’t she once, when she was a young girl, said those very same words. Heard them uttered back at her by Riona’s mother.

  Struggling to her feet Grandmother reached out to take the girls’ hands, her body lyrical in its’ many creaks and moans. The news she had to impart was not easy to say, and would not be easy for Riona to hear. It would put her granddaughter’s honor on the line and test the purity of her heart.

  “That maybe lass, but he is promised to another. Child, I am sorry to tell you, they marry in a week’s time.”

  Arthritis riddled hands squeezed tight to the strong as they tried to pull away.

  “No. That’s not true. He would have told me. I don’t believe you!”

  “Believe what you will, the matter was decided long ago. The contract is binding and canna be broken.”

  Frantic at the thought of her love being stolen from her, Riona pulled her hands free, blurting out the first solution that came to mind. “He won’t do it. We’ll run away.” She declared.

  As fast and as sharp as a lightning strike and just as unforgiving Grandmother’s hand struck the young, beautiful face; the sting harsh enough to bring tears to Riona’s eyes. Tears that would not fall. Held in check by her will the only outward sign of her distaste at the assault was her hands curled into fists at her side.

  “You will hold your tongue!” Grandmother challenged, her once wizened voice turned to steel. “Only a coward runs from his duties and our Laird’s son is no coward. He will do his duty, marry this woman and beget his heirs. There canna be another way.” The unkind tones of reprimand turned thoughtful with sympathy as she watched the girls’ face. It did not crumple or fall with the shock and sadness of this revelation. Instead, it was like a canvas, wiped clean in thought. The only thing that gave her away, those strange lavender eyes. Just behind them you could see Riona’s skilled mind at work. Strategizing, planning, trying to make sense of the news.

  “Just because he is to marry, I doubt his father would object overly to Cinaed taking you to mistres
s if he so desired it.” Grandmother reasoned, searching for something that would give Riona comfort.

  “Mistress!” The word spat from her young mouth full of venom. The thought was repulsive, hurting more than any slap. “A fancy word for whore.” Riona shook her head in denial. “I dinna thinks so. You ask too much of me.”

  The crone shrugged, hands on her hips. “Too much of you, or too much of your pride? It has always been misplaced for one as lowly as you, the bastard daughter of a slave. Being the mistress of our future Laird is naught but a small price to pay for happiness.” Grandmother pointed out, “In turn you still have each other and Cinaed fulfills his duty. A fair compromise to my way of thinking.” A compromise that had worked well enough for Grandmother’s own self.

  Turning away to stare into the flames that danced in the hearth, Riona shook her head, her bright tresses glowing gold in the shadows. Compromise. It was her mother and grandmother’s way and not one Riona wanted for herself. Full of twists and turns, Riona had no intention of following in their footsteps. To Riona’s way of thinking, it was a path that held only pain.

  “I dinna see it as such. To live every day seeing them together, knowing that I should be his rightful wife, his ceile. ‘Twould be a living Hell.” A Hell that would devour her as quickly as the flames that devoured the peat that provided their warmth. “For his wife to know another shares her husbands bed and commands his affections would be tantamount to blasphemy. I willna sink low enough to wish that upon her. She is but an innocent pawn in this. As innocent as he is. As innocent as I am. The three of us are not but puppets, pulled by the invisible strings of those who decide for us.”

  Riona turned to Grandmother, her eyes pleading. “Dinna you see that to have the both of us in his life would eat away at him like an unhealing sore. Festering slowly the animosity would fill his body with poisoning until it killed him!” Just like it had her mother.

  There was deep sadness in the crone’s eyes as she looked upon the woman-child before her. If her lineage were different, if it were pure, their Laird would gladly take Riona as wife to his son. She was full of spirit and deep of strength; an ideal mate for a man many depend on.

  Recognizing the truth in the child’s words and the bleak acceptance that came into her eyes Grandmother sat heavily on her stool; her body weary, her bones feeling their age. “I wish things could be different. I am truly sorry Riona, the matter canna be undone.”