No. Don’t weaken like this.
‘You could have knocked,’ he said.
Iseult jerked her attention away. ‘You wouldn’t have let me in.’ She pulled the folds of her grey brat around her shoulders, shivering in the cool spring night. The interior of the hut was as frigid as the outside, for Kieran hadn’t bothered to build a fire. Two small clay lamps sitting on the work bench offered his only light. ‘Aren’t you freezing?’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’ He reached for a drying cloth and wiped the moisture away. Bare-chested, he didn’t bother to don a new tunic. It heightened the intimacy of the hut, making her imagination run wild. The forbidden desire to touch Kieran came over her again. Iseult dropped her gaze to the ground, forcing her thrumming heart to calm down.
She spied his old garment sodden with water, resting upon a bench. It struck her to realise that these were the only clothes he possessed.
Iseult set her basket down upon the earthen floor. ‘May I?’ She gestured towards the peat stacked near the hearth. The need to do something, to take her mind off the present moment, was foremost.
He shrugged, and she gathered tinder and flint, sparking a fire. In time, her shivering ceased when the warm flames licked the fuel. She dragged two wooden tree stumps near the fire and picked up his wet tunic without asking. Wringing the remaining water out, she spread it to dry before the fire. Occupying her hands made it easier to avoid the true reason for coming.
Kieran said nothing, but behaved as though she weren’t there. He sat upon the bench, his blade moving upon the wood. Tiny shavings flew into the air, and the fresh scent of yew filled the hut.
‘I won’t stay long,’ Iseult promised. She wasn’t certain how to ask him about the slave markets without bringing up bad memories. Surely it had been a barbaric experience, completely demeaning.
‘What is it you want?’ In his voice she heard the undertones of displeasure at being interrupted.
In the faint golden light, she saw white scars across his fingers and knuckles. They were the hands of a working man, not a nobleman. Like her father’s.
Her heart softened as she thought of her da and how she missed him. Rory was the sort of man who laughed often and would gather her in a bear hug. Sometimes he’d made rings for her out of bits of iron, while working at his forge. As a little girl, she’d pretended they were made of silver and precious stones.
‘Iseult?’ Kieran prompted again. Impatience lined his voice.
She bit her lip, fearing he would have no information to give her. ‘I wanted…to ask you about the slave markets,’ she admitted at last. Her heartbeat quickened, and she rubbed her shoulders to bring warmth back into her skin. ‘Were there any children there?’
‘Many.’ His face transformed into anger, his brown eyes fierce with the injustice. ‘Some only a few days old if their mothers happened to give birth in captivity.’
For the first time, he set down his knife and stared at her. ‘Were you thinking to buy a child?’
‘No!’ The very idea horrified her. How could he think her that cold or unfeeling? Though she understood that families were sometimes driven to desperation, she couldn’t imagine selling a child for profit.
Kieran didn’t press, but waited for her to continue. He picked up his knife, and she watched the blade dig into the wood, shaving the layers away. It disconcerted her to see her face emerging from the wood. Not the carefree girl she’d been once, but instead the weary face of a woman.
‘I wanted…to find a particular child,’ she said at last. ‘A boy about two years of age. With dark hair and deep blue eyes. His name is Aidan.’
‘I saw at least a dozen boys with that description. From all over Éireann.’ Though his voice was flat, Kieran’s eyes rested upon her with speculation. She was afraid he’d ask more questions, but he kept any curiosity to himself.
Her hopes deflated, she bowed her head. ‘Thank you anyway.’ Iseult picked up the basket of food and hesitated a moment. He still wore no tunic, seemingly unconcerned about his bared skin. Though she wanted to give him the provisions she’d brought, her face flushed at the thought of nearing him.
Don’t be foolish. He’s not going to attack you, she chided herself. Even so, she set the basket on the table and stepped away as though it were on fire. ‘I brought you some of the venison. I doubt if Neasa gave you much of anything.’
He stopped his work and eyed it with interest. ‘She offered bread and a little mead.’
Iseult dared a smile. ‘She must have liked you, then. Most of the slaves have water and vegetables.’
Why was she chattering like a young girl? Like a witless fool, she’d let her tongue run off with her.
Kieran’s eyes grew appreciative of the repast she’d brought. He took a piece of venison and ate slowly, savouring the meat as though he had not eaten such in a long time. Iseult tried not to notice his mouth, nor the way his hands moved.
‘Did you have to steal it from her?’ he asked idly.
‘I helped clean up after the meal,’ she said. ‘I asked her if I could bring some of the food home, and she allowed it.’
‘You don’t live with them?’
Iseult suppressed a shudder. ‘Not yet.’ In spite of herself, she couldn’t help the dread that passed over her at the thought of dwelling with Neasa. ‘I am staying with my friend Muirne.’
He passed her the basket in silent invitation to share the food. Iseult withdrew the flask of wine and found two cups near the back of the hut. After pouring for each of them, she added, ‘Neasa probably wouldn’t have given me this, had she known I was bringing it here.’
The sweet fermented wine warmed her, and she knew she should go. Instead, she watched him. His hand traced the rim of the cup before he drank deeply. In the shadowed firelight, his skin gleamed.
When he set the cup down, he rose from the bench. With him standing so near, she could almost feel the heat from his skin. She wondered what it would feel like to touch him, to run her hand over the hard breadth of his shoulders. Her nape grew damp, and she took a step backwards in retreat. Saint Brigid, she was losing her mind.
‘You shouldn’t come back again, Iseult.’ He crossed his arms, but in spite of it, his eyes devoured her. She gripped her hands together so tightly, her knuckles went white. He captivated her, this man who should have terrified her. Right now she was wanting to feel his skin against her own, to experience the thrill of his kiss.
Her mind protested how wrong it was, even to imagine such a thing. ‘I only came to ask you about my—the boy,’ she amended. Her skin flushed even more.
‘And that’s all?’
‘Of course that’s all.’ Did he think she had come to see him? She wanted nothing to do with him. ‘If you have no answers for me, I’ll go.’
She picked up the empty basket, but he caught her wrist before she could go. ‘He’s your son, isn’t he?’
Her throat closed up, and she managed a nod. Don’t cry. The effort to hold her composure made it impossible to speak.
‘Why isn’t Davin helping you?’ He softened his grip upon her wrist, but did not release her. Iseult fought to keep herself from pulling back. She wasn’t afraid of him, only her body’s reaction to his touch.
‘Aidan isn’t his son.’ Though Davin claimed he would help her find the boy, he’d never initiated any searches. His only contribution was escorting her around the countryside. And he wouldn’t even do that any more, not after the threat of the raiders.
Kieran’s thumb brushed against her pulse in a silent offer of sympathy. It cracked the frail edges of her control and the tears spilled over.
‘Good eventide.’ Iseult swiped at her eyes and left the hut. She ran to the far side of the palisade, ducking into the shadows. Sinking to the ground, she gathered her knees to her chest and wept bitterly.
Though she wanted to believe that somehow she’d find Aidan, she was beginning to fear the worst, that he was lost to her forever.
Kieran’s eyes b
lurred from the sunlight. His muscles were locked and stiff. He’d stayed up the remainder of the night, finishing the carving. Iseult’s revelation had been the final stroke he needed to complete it. Her sadness wasn’t of a reluctant bride—instead, she was a grieving mother. It explained the sorrow upon her face, and her frustration.
He set the carving down and turned to the dying coals upon the fire. His tunic was dry, and he pulled it on, the wool still warm from the heat. She had set it there last night, as a wife might have done. The gesture rendered him puzzled. He’d seen through her feigned bravery, to the trembling she tried to hide from him. But she’d pressed on, asking questions for which there were no answers. She must be desperate if she thought he knew anything about her son.
What had happened to the boy’s father? Though she might have been married before, it did not seem so. There was an air of innocence about her.
He’d wanted to lie with her last night. In the intimacy of the hut, he’d wanted to taste her lips and touch the silken skin that haunted him.
Kieran expelled a breath. As if she’d ever let a man like him touch her. He was a slave, not worthy of any woman. He had no right to be thinking of her, and he’d never deceive anyone in the same way Branna had betrayed him.
He remembered waking beside his beloved, stroking her bare skin. He ached for her, even knowing Branna did not love him. Now his perfidious bride slept in another man’s bed. Escaping a marriage to her should have been a welcoming thought instead of a painful one.
Had he loved her? Or was it his pride that was wounded? When he tried to picture Branna in his mind, her features remained as clear as ever: soft auburn hair and eyes as dark as polished cherry wood. Her smile when he’d taken her into his arms.
His fingers dug into the carving, and Kieran forced his fingers to relax. She was gone now, wed to another man. Likely she never even thought of him. He wished he could drive her from his own thoughts so easily.
He drew his attention back to the carving and the shape of Iseult’s mouth. Instead of carving the anguish in her features, he’d added his own touch: a note of hope. Though he did not give her a false smile, he’d carved her lips to hold a wistful dream.
It suited her. As he stretched his fingers to push away the numbness, he realised he’d enjoyed this challenge. Though he would have to give the carving to Davin, the piece had taken his mind off the past.
Twelve weeks of slavery remained. At the end of his self-imposed servitude, would he find absolution? Somehow he doubted if there would be any peace.
Last night, he hadn’t been able to avoid being noticed, nor had he performed the tasks of a slave with adequate humility. He’d resented every moment of it. Which was, he supposed, the point of a sacrifice.
He opened a small cask of butter and used it to smooth the finish of the wood. As he forced the natural oils into the surface, he thought again of what he would do after he left Lismanagh.
He wanted to find a place where no one knew him, where he could abandon his heritage and rank. They would believe him, if he said he was nothing but a common woodcarver. No one had to know the truth.
He had no desire to see his father Marcas again. He’d sold himself into slavery, intending to rescue Egan. A part of him had believed Marcas would follow them, sending tribesmen to bring them both home.
But no one had come. Months had passed, and he hadn’t seen a single man. And he understood, then, that there would be no going back. They didn’t want him to return.
Kieran set the figure aside, wrapping it in linen. Then he opened the door fully, squinting at the brightness. It was not dawn, but rather mid-morning. He’d worked until the lamps burned out, but by then he’d had enough sunlight to continue. Perhaps he should feel exhausted, but he’d been so caught up in the work, it had renewed his energy.
Outside, he found another sack of supplies containing bread, venison and more wine. Apparently, Iseult had sent them, not Davin. Had she brought food to him over the past few days?
He didn’t know why that bothered him. As Davin’s intended wife, perhaps it was one of her duties to see to his slaves. Even so, while he broke his fast, he couldn’t help but recall her plea for information last night. He doubted if he could help her. He’d seen as many children as adults in the slave markets. Finding a particular boy would be impossible.
Enough. He closed his mind off from Iseult. The time had come to give Davin the carving and to sever all contact with Iseult. He put the wooden figurine inside a fold of his tunic and walked towards Davin’s home.
In the distance beyond the ringfort, he saw a small stone chapel. Beyond it, the rich soil had been tilled in preparation for planting. He could envision the green seedlings sprouting from the earth.
Around him, the familiar sounds of people reminded him of what he’d missed in the past few moons. Children laughing as they chased dogs around. The scent of peat fires and animals in their pens. Goats bleating while they were caught for milking. Sounds that reminded him of home. He ignored the slash of pain in his heart.
Neasa Ó Falvey caught sight of him, her long black hair caught up in a tight linen head covering. She wiped her hands upon her brat and raised her hand. ‘You, there. Davin’s slave. I need you to go and see to the sheep this morning.’
Kieran ignored her orders, searching for a sign of Davin.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ Neasa demanded, her hands upon her hips.
‘I heard. But I am ordered to bring something to your son Davin.’ He continued walking without listening to her.
‘I know where he is,’ a voice interrupted. Orin caught up to him, adding, ‘I’ll take you there.’ He glanced back at his foster-mother and increased his pace to get away. Kieran imagined the young man was more than eager to end his fostering.
Neasa did not bother to hide her irritation, grumbling beneath her breath as the two of them left. Orin led him outside the ringfort and pointed to a group of men on horseback. ‘There he is.’
Kieran raised a hand to shield his eyes and saw Davin mounted upon a dun gelding. ‘Where are they going?’
‘He’s speaking to the scouts he sent out a few days ago. They went to the coast to track the Lochlannachs.’
Kieran tensed. He’d had his own dealings with the Norsemen and Danes. Harsh memories pierced his gut, as he remembered the hand that had drawn a blade across Egan’s throat. He’d taken his vengeance upon the raiders, but none of it would bring his brother back. ‘What do they want?’
Orin shrugged. ‘Land. Wealth. Our women, I suppose.’
The prizes of conquest. Kieran’s hands clenched into fists as he followed the young man down to the others. One of the messengers was reporting his findings.
‘It’s a small group, possibly thirty men,’ the man said. ‘Their ship was anchored near Baile na nGall. They’ve set up a temporary camp outside the ruins.’
‘Any survivors?’ Davin asked.
‘If there were, they’ve left. We stayed away from the Norsemen and watched. It looks like they do intend to travel further inland. They were gathering more supplies when we returned.’
‘How many horses did they have?’ Kieran asked.
The men’s faces swung towards him in surprise. Likely they weren’t accustomed to slaves speaking. He didn’t care. The number of horses would tell how many high-ranking soldiers were among them.
The messenger glanced at Davin, who nodded. ‘There were five.’
Five men to lead a group of thirty sounded far too high. There must be more men waiting, possibly as many as seventy. Kieran held little optimism for this fight.
‘We’ll convene a council and decide what to do.’ Davin dismissed the messengers, instructing them to get food and to rest from their journey. One by one, the others followed until only Kieran and Orin remained behind.
Davin’s face held irritation at being interrupted. ‘What did you want?’
‘The likeness of my brother. Then the dower chest. I’ve finished my part
of the bargain.’ He passed Davin the cloth-wrapped figurine.
His master unwrapped the linen and studied the carving of Iseult. For a long moment, he said nothing. Kieran did not fear Davin’s lack of reaction, for he knew he’d done his best work.
‘It is her,’ Davin agreed, finally lifting his gaze. ‘By God, it’s her. I wouldn’t have believed it possible.’ Carefully, he covered the wood and tucked it away. ‘The figure of your brother is at my home. Come, and I’ll return it to you now. We’ll arrange for the chest to be brought later.’
They started to walk back to the ringfort, but Orin remained where he was, a hopeful smile playing on his face.
‘What is it?’ Davin asked.
‘It’s a fine day. The sea is calm and the skies are perfect.’
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Davin clapped a hand on his foster-brother’s back. ‘Gather your supplies, and I’ll arrange for the boat.’
Kieran started to continue on without them. Though he wanted to begin work on the chest, Davin had other plans. Kieran was beginning to understand what it meant to be a slave, and it vexed him to be at the mercy of another man’s whims.
‘I think Kieran should come,’ Orin added. ‘Else we won’t catch any fish. He brought us luck on the last hunting trip.’
‘What say you, Kieran?’
He stopped in his tracks, acknowledging Davin’s request. Or was it a command? The lack of control over his own decisions made him want to refuse. But then, the thought was tempting. He hadn’t been out sailing in over a year. The taste of the salt, the feeling of absolute freedom, lured him beyond measure.
‘We’ll take the boat out and try our luck with the sea,’ Davin continued. He mounted his horse, and glanced out at the grey ripples of foam.
Then there was no other choice. Kieran shrugged. ‘If you have need of me.’
‘A fitting reward, for such fine work,’ Davin said, touching the figure of Iseult. ‘This might be a last chance to go out sailing before the invasion. And…’ his blue eyes sparked with teasing ‘…you may keep whatever fish you catch. My mother won’t have anything except what Orin or I bring back.’
Her Warrior Slave Page 8
