After writing Candle in the Storm, it was my intention to extend it into a series of 6 small novels (each about 20k words long), but decided instead to start a new series based around where I live in the Norman town of Youghal, or Eochaill as it was known in 1232. This book is written with the Young Adult reader in mind.
In this book, the characters take on a more complex personalities with Cormac and Caitlín (the twins) now being 16. In 1232, that age would be considered adult where they would be expected to have responsibilities. Over the last decade I have had much contact with adults in the rea with intellectual difficulties and felt that it would be interesting to try and evaluate how a young adult with mild autism might navigate his life and society in general. In essence, this is a book about ‘coming of age’ in ways that might be alien to the youth of this century.
As I mentioned earlier, the characters are complex and so the Protagonist / Antagonist is not as clear-cut as one would expect. No one is perfect and no one is entirely evil – well, maybe no one 🙂
Here is a sample – Chapter-1
Young Blood Rising
Chapter 1: First Light in Eochaill
December 23rd, Dawn, Eochaill
While the cockrel still slumbered, Eochaill town wa already stirring to life. Smoke trailed from the blacksmith’s forge, where the ring of hammer on iron echoed faintly through the narrow lanes. The December air carried the bite of winter; it was the week of Michaelmas 1232.
Andrew huddled deep into his woollen cloak as he navigated the familiar cobblestone path. At twenty, he’d spent two years in Ireland, yet mornings like this still took him by surprise.
“Morning!” he called to the blacksmith. “Frost’s bitter enough to freeze the sea itself!”
The blacksmith paused mid-swing. “Aye, and your Norman blood’s too thin for it.” He spat into the forge, where it sizzled. “Your kind should’ve stayed in France where the winters are kinder.”
“Half my kind did,” Andrew replied with a grin. “The clever half.”
The blacksmith’s weathered face cracked into a reluctant smile before he returned to his hammering, each impact punctuating the silence.
Near the outer bailey, a woman struggled with a heavy water bucket. Andrew rushed forward to steady it before it tipped.
“My thanks,” she nodded, her breath visible in the cold. “Your Irish sweetheart’s made you useful, at least.”
“Máiréad would say I’ve always been useful,” he countered, helping her set the bucket down. “Just needed someone to notice.”
“She noticed more than most would dare,” the woman replied, lowering her voice. “Mind how you tread. Talk travels faster than truth in these walls.”
Andrew felt the warning settle like a stone in his stomach as he continued toward the bakery. Its wooden sign swung wildly ahead. Inside, warmth and the yeasty aroma of fresh bread enveloped him.
“Ah, young Andrew!” The baker’s wife greeted him, her face ruddy from the oven’s heat. “You’re early today. That lass of yours must be worth braving this weather for.”
Andrew felt heat rise to his face. “Worth braving much worse than this,” he admitted.
“The usual for your morning visit to the brew house?” she asked, already reaching for a fresh loaf.
“If you please,” he replied, coins in hand.
She wrapped the steaming bread in a clean cloth. “Give my regards to Máiréad,” she said, then lowered her voice. “And mind yourself today, lad. There was strange talk in the market yesterday evening.”
“What sort of talk?” Andrew asked, leaning closer.
The baker’s wife glanced toward the door. “Talk of thieving from the abbey stores. The Bailiff was asking questions.”
Andrew frowned. “Máiréad runs the most honest business in town.”
“Truth matters less than who speaks it,” she replied, pressing the bread into his hands. “Now go, before it cools.”
The path between the buildings narrowed as he approached the brew house quarter. Andrew ducked under a low-hanging beam.
“Mind your head there!” called a passing porter, balancing a sack of grain on his shoulder. “That beam’s caught many a distracted man!”
“My head’s safe enough,” Andrew called back, “though my heart’s another matter entirely!”
“Is it the Irish girl?” The porter stopped, shifting his load. “She’s caused quite a stir this morning.”
Andrew’s smile fell. “What do you mean?”
“The Bailiff and two guards. Went into her brew house at first light.” The porter shrugged. “Not my business what she’s done.”
“She’s done nothing,” Andrew snapped, brushing past him.
“We’re all guilty of something,” the porter called after him. “Especially those who cross the old boundaries.”
The brew house sat further along, tucked close to the inner wall. A faint, comforting scent of malt filtered out through the doorway. Andrew’s step lightened. The thought of seeing Máiréad, the way her dark hair brushed back from her face as she worked, the soft lines at the corner of her eyes when she smiled, quickened his pace.
Something was different. The door stood slightly ajar, unusual in this cold weather. No sounds of activity came from within. No scraping of the mash paddle against copper, no humming as Máiréad worked. Just silence, broken only by the occasional crackle from the hearth fire.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he stepped inside, letting the warmth wash over him.
“I come bearing bread, finest lady of the brew house!” he declared, his voice bright with affection and yet wary.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, his smile faltered. Máiréad stood near the hearth, her back to him, shoulders rigid. Her dark hair, usually neatly braided and tucked under a linen coif, now hung loose and tangled as if she’d been running her hands through it repeatedly. She wiped her face hastily with the corner of her apron.
“Máiréad?” Andrew crossed the room in a few quick strides, heart pounding. “What’s happened?”
She turned to face him, her eyes red-rimmed, tears still clinging to her cheek. For a moment, she simply looked at him, and Andrew felt his heart tighten.
“They’ve accused me of theft,” her voice was soft but steady. “They think I’m pilfering supplies to my… my clann.”
“Who accused you?” He asked in disbelief.
“The Bailiff left less than a half hourglass ago.” She gestured toward an open ledger on the worktable, its pages marred with angry quill strokes. “They had documents, delivery records with my mark, but for barrels I never received. Someone stole from the Franciscan Abbey’s stores for months and placed my mark on the acknowledgement-parchments.”
Andrew felt as if the floor had suddenly opened beneath him. The Bailiff had no mercy, especially to the Irish.
“This is madness,” he said, grasping her trembling hands in his. “Everyone knows of your honesty. We’ll go to Sir Edward, explain … “
“Tomorrow … ” Máiréad said, pulling back her hands, “they’ll be back,” her tone sharp. She moved to a small trunk in the corner and opened it. “They say to search the premises and take me for questions.” As she started taking out parchments.
Andrew shook his head. At eighteen, Máiréad had already built this small brew house from nothing, through sheer determination and skill. To see it threatened by lies enraged him.
“I will not leave you to face this alone,” he said firmly. “And I think I know why you’re being accused,” he continued, his voice low but urgent.
“The Bailiff and the friar; I’ve seen enough at the cooperage to know they’ve been … “
She cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Andrew, please.” She barely turned to look at him, her words quick, almost frantic. “Do you think I don’t know? But I never thought they would forge parchments and blame me. Now, I need to find my acknowledgements. That’s all that matters.”
“But if you let me … “
“No,” she said firmly, her gaze finally meeting his. The strength he admired so fiercely seemed to waver, but only for a heartbeat. “This is my brew house. I made this!” She stood up and gestured around at everything she had built. “I need some space now to think; to work. This is my brew house, my problem to solve.”
“With these,” she added, pointing to the strewn parchments. “I don’t need anyone to fight my battles, not a man, no one. That is something I can do myself; defend my name.”
Andrew hesitated; her words rooted him in place and stung like a nettle. He could feel her thoughts, unspoken but clear: This is mine to fix; I don’t need … no … I don’t want your help.
Andrew’s face spoke volumes; hurt and disappointment. With a calming breath, she moved over to him. “Andrew, please, we can talk later, when my mind is clear again.”
“I’ll go,” he said finally, his voice quieter. He moved toward the door, the scent of bread still in his arm mingled with the acrid tang of spilled ale.
“Thank you, Andrew,” she called after him, her voice hesitant.
It was neither a dismissal nor gratitude; it was something in-between. He stepped into the morning frost, his breath curling in the cold air as her resolve echoed in his mind.
Outside, Andrew’s thoughts were in turmoil. She might have wanted him gone, but he couldn’t shake the image of her tear-streaked face. The Bailiff’s accusations, the friar’s dubious dealings; it was all tangled too tightly for him to ignore. He had his name, his growing reputation as a craftsman, his Norman status; he would use them.
On the ground floor of the castle, the Bailiff’s office was a place where shadows clung. The pale morning light struggled through the grimy south-facing window.
Every surface groaned under the weight of neglected scrolls and crumpled parchments. Dust had settled in lazy drifts along the room’s edges, while the sharp tang of stale ale lingered.
Behind the cluttered desk sat Bailiff Adam. He was as untidy as the space around him. His strained tunic stretched over a thickset belly, and his untidy sandy hair did nothing to soften the calculating gleam in his grey eyes. A perpetual twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him the appearance of someone hiding a secret joke at everyone else’s expense.
His quill scratched across parchment, slow and deliberate. He didn’t look up when Andrew entered.
“I need to speak with you about Máiréad Mac Cárthaigh, the brewer,” Andrew said, keeping his voice level despite the anger simmering beneath the surface.
The Bailiff paused mid-stroke. “The Irish thief?”
“She’s no thief.” Andrew’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk.
A weary sigh escaped the Bailiff. “There is nothing to discuss, cooper. The accusation stands.” He set down his quill. “And let me remind you of something. Your privileged position does not entitle you to meddle in areas of security.”
Andrew straightened, his voice firm but respectful. “I’ve kept track of the barrels made and deliveries. I’ve noticed errors, but not at the brew house.”
“Careful now.” The Bailiff glanced toward the door.
“I suspect a monk in the Franciscan friary. The one overseeing the common stores.”
The Bailiff’s eyes flicked up sharply. There was no surprise, only calculation. “That is a dangerous claim, cooper.” He pushed a parchment aside with one finger. “One that you cannot make without… repercussions. Especially in these troubling times.”
“I understand the risk.” Andrew met his gaze directly. “But I’ll not stand by and see an innocent woman punished. You know she is honourable. Why accuse her now?”
The Bailiff tapped his fingers against the desk. Silence stretched between them. Then he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his ample belly.
“You understand the risk?” he said, waiting a beat. “But do you?”
“What do you mean?” Andrew was confused but also angry.
“Her guilt or innocence is immaterial,” he whispered, tapping his finger for emphasis. “The Mac Cárthaigh clann has stirred unrest with recent incursions. They are dangerous. People have died. My friends and yours.”
He waited for the words to sink in. “You are young. Consider your position – carefully.”
Andrew opened his mouth to protest, but the Bailiff raised a hand.
“Listen carefully, please. This solution benefits you. She cannot stay roaming free. No true Norman will accept her freedom.”
He smiled thinly. “Máiréad’s innocence is irrelevant. The theft charge is a mere inconvenience. She will still brew, just restricted within the town walls. Nothing more.”
Seeing doubt flash across Andrew’s face, the Bailiff added with practised authority, “Sir Edward himself has so ordered.”
“Sir Edward brought me here and has overseen my cooperage.” Andrew straightened his shoulders. “I do not believe he would order such a deed.”
The Bailiff’s smile vanished. He rose slowly, leaning across the desk until Andrew could smell the sour wine on his breath.
“Now listen carefully, young cooper.” His voice dropped to a steely whisper. “I control trade in and out of this town. You depend on me for your livelihood. Do you want to cross me?” His eyes narrowed. “Your benefactor won’t help. Be careful, or you will sail on the next boat to Bristol.”
Andrew stood frozen, the sting of humiliation tightening his throat. The fire in his belly roared, begging him to lash out, to challenge the Bailiff’s smug sneer. Yet his hands merely twitched at his sides.
The man before him wasn’t just a petty criminal; he was the gatekeeper to Andrew’s future, the puppet master who could pull strings and watch Andrew’s world unravel with ease.
In the cooperage, everything had its place; order, precision, respect. But here, Andrew realised that no such rules applied. The sharp edge of injustice cut deeper than he had expected, and worse still, he had no weapon to fight back.
Silence stretched between them, and the Bailiff’s smirk deepened. Andrew swallowed hard, casting his gaze to the desk littered with parchments and ink-smudged quills. He squared his shoulders, though the gesture felt hollow, and turned without a word.
“Yes, get out,” the Bailiff muttered, waving his hand dismissively.
Andrew’s boots struck the frozen ground hard, his pace quick and unyielding as he left the Bailiff’s chamber behind. The cold air slapped at his face, but it did little to cool the rage within.
The narrow streets of the inner town stretched out before him. Winding and busy with the hum of people preparing for the day ahead. The scents of dawn spread through the town as houses and shops stirred to life. The warm, yeasty aroma of bread joined the tang of wood smoke from hearths. Among these familiar fragrances was a sour undertone; evidence of the chamber pots discreetly emptied by early risers – a reality of daily life in Eochaill.
As Andrew strode back to the brew house, he passed a miller pushing his cart.
“In a hurry, young cooper?” the man called, eyeing Andrew’s thunderous expression.
Andrew pressed on without reply. His mind raced with the Bailiff’s threats. At the brew house, he paused at the open doorway, peering inside. The warmth that had filled the space earlier seemed to have ebbed away; the hearth reduced to a faint glow. “Máiréad?” His voice echoed mockingly against the empty walls.
A woman washing linens in a nearby trough looked up. “Looking for the Irish brewer, are you?”
Andrew crossed to her quickly. “You’ve seen her?”
“Aye.” She wrung water from a cloth with strong hands. “Not long ago. Walked past with a face like thunder.” She lowered her voice. “Heard tell the Bailiff’s men were at her door this morning.”
“Do you know where she went?” Andrew asked, trying to keep the desperation from his voice.
The woman shrugged. “I mind my own affairs. Unlike some.” Her pointed look made Andrew’s cheeks burn.
Stepping back into the courtyard, he caught the hem of a passing servant’s cloak.
“Máiréad, the brewer. Have you seen her?” His words tumbled out faster than intended.
The young man tried to pull away. “Manners!”
“Please,” Andrew said, loosening his grip. “It’s important.”
The servant hesitated but pointed toward the north. “I think she went to the Priory. I saw her heading that way.”
“The Dominican Priory? You’re certain?”
“Aye.” The man nodded. “Rushing like the devil himself was on her tail.”
Andrew offered a brief nod of thanks before turning his steps toward the main way between North and South gates where the Dominican priory was situated.
“I’d tread carefully if I were you,” the servant called after him. “Norman lad chasing after an Irish girl in these times? You’re asking for grief.”
Andrew hesitated but didn’t turn back. If Máiréad was searching for answers of her own at the priory, that might prove to be grave folly after the Bailiff’s threats. Despite his youth, he felt the weight of a much older man on his shoulders as he hurried towards the priory.
Andrew quietly stepped inside the small priory, the thick oak door sighing shut behind him. The air was heavy with the mingling scents of incense, damp stone, and a faintly medicinal aroma.
To his left, an open archway led to the infirmary. Andrew hesitated at the threshold, unprepared for what greeted him. The cramped room stretched before him, filled with two disorderly rows of pallets upon which lay at least a dozen men. Many wore bandages stained rust-brown with dried blood; others shivered beneath threadbare blankets despite the oppressive heat from the central brazier.
A soldier near the entrance caught his eye – a young man, barely older than himself, face grey with pain.
“You shouldn’t linger here unless you’ve business,” the soldier said through gritted teeth as a monk changed the dressing on his arm. The wound beneath was an angry red, its edges puckered and weeping.
“I’m looking for someone,” Andrew replied, his gaze drawn to the Norman colours on torn tunics.
“Aren’t we all?” The soldier winced. “Some look for salvation, others for mercy. Which are you seeking?”
Before Andrew could answer, a delirious man near the far wall called out for his mother. Another sobbed quietly into his blanket. The soft murmurs of praying monks formed a constant layer beneath these sounds of suffering.
“Move aside, lad, unless you’re here to help,” a weary monk said, pushing past him roughly with a fresh basin of water.
“I’m looking for a woman, Máiréad the brewer. Has she been through here?” Andrew asked.
The monk quickly scanned the small infirmary. “I don’t recognise her. Now move, please.”
Andrew stepped back, his search forgotten as the reality of Norman rule in Ireland crashed over him. These men from his homeland were bleeding and dying in a foreign land. The violence he’d heard of in whispered conversations now had faces and voices crying out in pain.
He retreated from the suffering and moved farther down the hallway. On his right, the glow of candles spilled from the open chapel door. The small chapel was austere, with rough-hewn wooden benches arranged in orderly rows before a small altar.
“You seem lost.” A voice startled him from behind.
Andrew turned to find a stooped monk with kindly eyes. “I’m looking for Máiréad, the brewer.”
“Ah, the Irish girl.” The monk smiled. “She’s with Friar Fiachra, I think. Follow me.”
Several monks were already preparing for morning mass. Máiréad stood in hushed conversation with an older monk. She glanced over and caught sight of Andrew, hesitantly raising her hand to beckon him forward.
Andrew moved cautiously, his footsteps echoing on the worn stone. As he neared, Máiréad straightened and offered a faint smile.
“Andrew, this is Monk Fiachra,” she said, her voice steady but strained. “We’ve been acquainted for years, before my arrival at Eochaill.”
Andrew inclined his head respectfully. “I’ve heard the name, though we’ve never met.” He extended his hand.
Monk Fiachra grasped it, holding Andrew’s gaze for a long moment, his eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. “And you are the cooper. The one who tends to the barrels?”
“The penetrating gave disturbed Andrew momentarily. “Yes, Monk. I make, repair, and oversee their storage.” Andrew paused, glancing between them. “I’ve just come from the Bailiff.”
“Let us move outside, walls have ears here.” Fiachra, led them out the chapel entrance into a small back courtyard.
Fiachra was not dressed for the cold, and stomped his sandal clad feet on the cold cobbled surface. “Now, Andrew, what do you have to share with us?”
Máiréad rested her hand lightly on Andrew’s arm. “Tell him everything. Fiachra wants to help, and I trust him with my life.”
“The Bailiff plans to detain Máiréad,” Andrew said. “Not because of any theft, but because of her clan’s actions. He mentioned many deaths at the hands of your clann, Máiréad.”
“My family has done nothing,” Máiréad whispered fiercely.
“The Mac Cárthaigh clan has many branches,” Fiachra said gently. “Some less peaceful than others.”
Andrew continued, “He threatened to send me back to Bristol if I interfered.”
Fiachra nodded slowly. “Máiréad a stór,” he said, his voice gentle but firm, “you should focus on gathering your acknowledgements. We can delay their plans by exposing their deceit.”
“But Monk Fiachra, this is urgent,” Andrew began.
“I understand,” Fiachra interrupted, raising a hand. His eyes, though kind, brooked no argument. “But hasty actions now could make matters worse. Let us gather evidence first.”
He turned to Máiréad. “How does this approach sit with you, child?”
Máiréad drew a deep breath. “Yes, you are right. The Bailiff made me panic. That was his plan.”
“Yes, I think it was. Or, at least, part of a bigger plan.”
“I will go back to the brew house. It gives me time to think rather than acting from fear.” Her shoulders relaxed slightly. “I’d rather face this with a plan than run like a common thief.”
“Good.” Fiachra nodded and turned to Andrew. “Return to your cooperage and continue your daily tasks. Act as though nothing has changed.”
“You want me to do nothing?” Andrew’s voice rose slightly.
“I want you to be wise,” Fiachra replied, laying a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Your instinct is to protect her, but for now, the wisest protection is discretion.”
“The Bailiff said they’re coming tomorrow,” Andrew insisted.
“Tomorrow is not today. He cannot see fear, that is what he plans tomorrow – to frighten,” Fiachra said. “The Normans seldom move quickly on such matters, especially with Christmas preparations underway. We have time. We can talk again after vespers”
“Until this evening, then,” Máiréad said, meeting Andrew’s eyes with a silent plea for patience.
Fiachra nodded. “God bless you both.” With a final reassuring look, he turned and headed toward the infirmary, his steps purposeful and unhurried – a man accustomed to navigating dangerous waters while maintaining a calm appearance.
“Do you trust him?” Andrew whispered once Fiachra had gone.
“With my life.”
Ciaran Leamy - Author 