The Distant Tide - Heather Day Gilbert

Chapter 1

1170 AD, Ciar’s Kingdom, Ireland

The skies were as unsettled as her own future.

Swirling mountain breezes billowed through Britta’s narrow castle window, carrying with them the unmistakable tang of a storm. The sunshine of the morning had given way to glowering clouds this evening. Springtime in Ireland could be fickle.

She swiped at another errant tear. Refocusing on her favorite book, her finger traced the Latin words on the ancient vellum page.

A sharp rap sounded, and her nursemaid, Florie, entered her room in her usual way, without waiting for permission. She bustled toward Britta’s chair, her brass-blond hair escaping her kerchief. Her round face was flushed from walking up the tight circular stairs.

“I’ve been shoutin’ for you, Princess. There’s no one to come and fetch you, since your father took my servants with him on his journey to see the high king. It’s time for our evening meal.”

Florie was bolder than any other servant in the castle, but for good reason. After Britta’s mother had died young from the fever, Florie had stepped in to care for the toddler princess. Britta couldn’t recall one day when her loyal Florie hadn’t come rushing when she needed her.

The woman leaned closer, the smell of cooked meat wafting from her clothing. She cupped Britta’s quivering chin with her rough hand then pushed black strands of hair off Britta’s face. “You’ve been crying. What worries could be weighing on you, safe and healthy as you are?”

That was just the problem. She was perfectly safe here in the castle—so comfortable, she never had to leave this place. And the largest part of her didn’t want to leave. Generations ago, the O’Shea family had settled in this lush pocket of Ireland. This beloved castle and land held her close, as tightly as if she were shackled.

She tried to explain. “You know I’ve always wanted to share my faith with those who have never heard of Christ, and even to those who still hold to druidry.”

Florie nodded, thoughtful. A smile broke across her face. “Perhaps your father will make your dream possible with this journey. You are of marriageable age now, and I have heard the high king has four handsome sons—”

Britta gasped at the suggestion. Surely her father had traveled to discuss kingdom business with the high king, as he did every year. “I can’t leave you, Florie. Nor could I leave Father, although he might not miss the opinions I so freely offer him.”

“True, I shouldn’t like to see you leave, Princess. I doubt your father would, either.” Florie’s light eyes crinkled. “Perhaps God has another suitor for you, closer to home.”

Britta sighed. She didn’t want to think about suitors yet. She wanted to understand how to use her talents for God—whatever those talents were. She was a proficient reader. She also enjoyed talking to Father about decisions for the kingdom, but every time she shared her thoughts, it was as though she was talking into the wind. Father listened to his right-hand man, Ronan. Not to her.

The psalmist said she should ask for the desires of her heart, but the two strongest desires were irreconcilable. There was no way to spread the Word without leaving the kingdom she cared so deeply about.

Florie patted her hand. “Come on down to eat. You’ll feel better with something in your stomach, and then I can prepare a bath for you.” She rustled down the stairs without waiting for Britta’s response.

Not even vaguely mollified, Britta glanced out the window. The low gray clouds obscured her view of the nearby mountain. Because its crowning rock formation was shaped like a crow’s beak, many viewed the monument as an annoyance, an obstruction to the clean line of rolling green hills that swept to the ocean. But to her, it felt like a protective ally, solid and reliable. Even though it was simply called Crow Mountain, she liked to imagine more poetic names for it, like Eagle Aerie or Piney Bluff.

If only God would make His plans for her as obvious as that mountain.

When Britta reluctantly trailed downstairs, she caught Ronan and Florie attempting to move the tabletop onto the trestle in the great hall. To save space, the table was always taken apart after meals and moved into a corner.

The tabletop was a dense plank of cherrywood, and it would be impossible for two people to manage it, even given Ronan’s considerable strength. The guards her father had left behind were already camped at their posts for the evening.

“Let me help.” She