A rueful smile touched his lips. Childish dreams, indeed. The only claim to territory he had was a small island, hardly more than a hundred acres, given to him by his great-grandsire. Nothing stood there, save grass and stones. Unfit for farming, with a rocky coastline, no one else had wanted it.
‘Is that your father’s land?’ Iseult asked.
He nodded. ‘Marcas is the chieftain.’ Glancing seawards he added, ‘But the island is mine. Or at least, it was. Ennisleigh is its name.’
As a child, he’d swum the small channel a few times, when a boat was unavailable. A few nights, he’d even slept out of doors, watching the stars scattered like salt upon a dusky blanket.
The island held a wealth of memories. He stared at the land, wishing it belonged to him still. He could think of no better place for their children and foster-children.
Unless his father turned him away.
And though Iseult claimed she would go with him, whether he was a slave or a king, he wanted to give her his birthright. He wanted to rebuild, with her at his side.
When he reached the outer fosse, Kieran trudged up the hill towards the enclosure. Peat smoke hung above the dwellings, and he paused before the gate. No one guarded it, and he wondered why. Moments later, he entered.
One of his kinsmen, Steafán, stopped short as though he’d seen one of the sidhe dubh, an evil spirit. His cousin was thin, but he no longer held the look of a starving man. With long hair pulled back in a leather thong and a brown beard that touched his chest, he was starting to regain his former strength.
Kieran continued striding forwards, Iseult’s hand in his, while the children hung behind. At last, his kinsman’s shoulders lowered in relief and he hastened forward to welcome him. ‘It is you. I wondered if you would ever return.’
Kieran accepted Steafán’s embrace, clapping his cousin on the shoulder. ‘For now.’
‘We didn’t think we’d see you alive again.’
‘I doubted it myself.’ Though the pain of losing Egan had not fully diminished, it was easier to live with the guilt.
‘Would you like to join us for a small meal? My wife could offer some pottage or—’
Kieran shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no. I should go and greet my family.’
‘Your father will want to see you.’ Steafán’s expression turned grim. ‘He has not been well these past few weeks.’
Kieran didn’t want to hear any more. ‘We’ll go and see them now.’ He bade his cousin a good morn and squared his shoulders. He knew not what sort of welcome he would receive, if any at all.
When he reached his parents’ home, the door stood open to let in the daylight. He saw his mother Eithne stirring a large iron pot. She looked at least ten years older than when he’d last seen her. Grey streaks lined her deep brown hair, and wrinkles edged her eyes and mouth.
‘Dia dhúit, Mother,’ he greeted her. Eithne whirled around, her mouth dropping open. Seconds later, her eyes filled with tears. She opened her arms to him, weeping softly as he let her pull his head down against her neck. ‘You’re home. Blessed saints, you’re home.’
‘I’ve missed you,’ he said quietly, returning his mother’s fierce embrace. She kissed his cheek and wiped the tears away from her face. Quietly, he introduced Iseult and the children.
Eithne’s smile widened. ‘Marcas, come and see. It’s our Kieran. He’s alive.’
Marcas sat beside a low table, unmoving. Unlike Eithne, he appeared exactly the same. Leathery skin stretched across a dark-bearded jaw, his face framed by black hair touched with silver.
Every muscle in his body tensed as Kieran approached his father. He prepared himself for his father’s wrath, or possibly cold silence.
He wasn’t prepared to see the grief upon Marcas’s face. When he sat opposite the table, his father’s hand shot out to his, gripping his palm with a remarkable strength before dragging him into an embrace.
‘My son,’ Marcas breathed.
Forgiveness poured through him, and Kieran felt like a young lad once again, wanting so hard to please. ‘I’m sorry.’
Marcas wept openly. ‘Thank God you returned. I didn’t want to lose both of you.’
‘I blamed myself for losing Egan,’ Kieran admitted. ‘I was afraid to return.’
‘But you did.’ Marcas leaned against the table for support as he stood. ‘The tribe has needed your strength these past few months. There is much to be done.’
‘There is,’ Kieran agreed. ‘And it’s time for a new beginning.’
Another moon waxed and waned, and Iseult’s stomach grew rounded and fuller. The days were growing warmer now, and frost no longer coated the grasses each morn. Aidan was old enough to be fostered, but she could not bring herself to part with him. Not just yet. Often she would see Kieran swinging Aidan up on to his shoulders, speaking about fishing and the ringfort plans for Ennisleigh, as though the boy could understand every word.
He had only begun framing the palisade wall, and most of it was unfinished. Inside the fortress were six stone huts, one of them set aside for their own use until the rath was completed.
‘Several of my kinsmen have promised to join us here,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one day we will have enough to become a clan of our own.’
‘What of your father?’
‘He prefers the old ways. Likes to argue, Marcas does. And he’ll argue about a decision I’ve made.’
‘And what is that?’
‘I’ve taken another name for us. We will call ourselves after my brother’s memory.’
‘Your brother Egan who was killed?’
He nodded. ‘We will be the sons of Egan, those my brother could never have. The MacEgan clan.’
Iseult embraced him, her hand touching the back of his neck. ‘I think he would be pleased by it.’
Kieran led her inside the wooden fortress, its walls barely begun. ‘Some day, this will be your home when it is finished.’ One small area was sheltered, and he took her within its space.
To her surprise, Iseult found the dower chest that Kieran had carved. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Davin sent it. As a gift.’ He smiled, leaning down to kiss her. ‘It has good memories for us, does it not?’
She touched the carvings. ‘It does. You’ll have to carve another one in return for him. I’ve heard that he and Niamh are betrothed now.’
Lifting the lid, she found soft linen clothing, sewn for her unborn babe. ‘Who made these?’
‘Your mother.’ Kieran closed the lid. ‘She also sent clothing for the children and wedding gifts.’
Iseult ran her fingertips along the edge of the chest, her heart aching. The clothes were her mother’s way of asking forgiveness for what she’d done.
Her heart bled as she traced the carvings upon the chest. Though her mother had hurt her in the deepest way possible, Caitleen was trying to make amends.
‘I will ask her to come and visit, after the babe is born,’ Iseult said at last.
Kieran’s arms wrapped around her waist in silent understanding. ‘I am getting too large to hold,’ Iseult teased.
He ran his hands over her stomach, kissing her neck until she shivered. ‘Never that, a ghrá.’
As he stood with his wife, Kieran watched the moon rise over their island. Beneath his palms lay their future, and in his arms, the woman he loved more than life itself.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-2430-2
HER WARRIOR SLAVE
Copyright © 2008 by Michelle Willingham
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Her Warrior Slave Page 24
