Surrender to an Irish Warrior

by Michelle Willingham

  ‘Morren?’ he whispered. ‘Are you in pain?’

  She remained far away from him, but her sobs grew muffled. ‘A bad dream. That’s all.’

  He didn’t know what to say. Words were meaningless after what she’d suffered. It was no wonder nightmares bothered her.

  ‘And your fever?’

  She rolled over to look at him. Her wheat-coloured hair hung against her face, and she looked as though she’d endured a gruelling night. ‘It’s better.’ He didn’t believe her and reached out to touch her forehead.

  Morren cowered from him, and he let his hand fall away. A tightness formed within him, that she was unable to bear even a simple touch.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ she insisted. ‘We need to find Jilleen today.’

  Though her colour had improved, he wanted her to remain abed for at least another day. She might worsen if she pushed herself too hard. ‘I know you’re feeling better, but I’d rather you stayed here. I’ll leave you with food, water and firewood before I search for your sister.’

  Morren sent him a steady look. ‘If you go without me, I’ll follow you as soon as you’ve left. She’s my sister, and I need to know that she’s safe.’ With a firm stubbornness, she raised her chin and began to sit up. ‘I’m going to search for her. With or without you.’

  Trahern sat up on his side of the bed, suddenly realising that his feet were beneath the sheet. Some time in the middle of the night, Morren had covered them. He hadn’t expected the kindness.

  He got up and returned to the bundle of clothing he’d found earlier. From within it, he found an overdress. The colours were dull, the wool coarse and prickly, but the material would keep her warm.

  Once he helped Morren to find her sister, he would bring them somewhere safe. Perhaps to another clan, if the Ó Reillys hadn’t yet rebuilt their cashel.

  A cold fury spread through his veins once more, as he imagined the devastating attack the Ó Reillys must have suffered. He simply couldn’t understand why the Lochlannach had tried to destroy an entire clan. A cattle raid was one matter, but this killing went beyond all else.

  He needed to understand why. And after he’d found his enemies, he vowed to avenge Ciara’s death and bring both Morren and Jilleen to safety.

  Picking up his pouch of supplies, Trahern used his knife to slice through the leather. He made crude shoes out of the material, insulating them with straw. He gave Morren one set and offered the laces from his tunic to tie them on. He nodded at his cloak. ‘Wear that. You’ll need it to stay warm.’

  ‘It’s too cold,’ she argued. ‘You’ll need to use it yourself. And I can use the cloak that was on the bed.’

  ‘Take both of them. You need to stay warm more than I do.’ When she was about to protest, Trahern picked up the garment and tossed it to her. If he had to fasten it himself, he’d make her wear it.

  ‘St Michael’s Abbey lies a few miles to the west,’ he continued. ‘We’ll stop there to rest.’

  ‘There’s no need to stop on my behalf.’ Morren eased to the end of the bed and stood. The woollen clothing hung against her thin body, and Trahern knew in his gut that she would never make it to Glen Omrigh. For that matter, he wasn’t certain she would reach the abbey without collapsing.

  He suspected she would push herself beyond all endurance to help her sister. He couldn’t blame her for it. For his own brothers, he’d do the same. It didn’t matter how far or how weakened he was. If a family member needed him, he’d drag his body halfway across Éireann.

  ‘I’ll arrange to borrow horses from the monks,’ he said, concealing his irritation about losing his own mount, Barra. With luck, he’d get the horse back. ‘That will make it easier on you.’

  She seemed to accept it, and started towards the door. Trahern stopped her by offering her a cup of water and food. ‘You’re not leaving until you’ve finished this.’ Though the dried meat wasn’t appetising in the least, the fare was better than nothing. After today, he’d have to hunt for more.

  Morren drank and nibbled at the venison. Though she didn’t eat enough, in his opinion, at least it was a start. When they’d finished, he walked alongside her. ‘If you start to feel weak, tell me. We’ll stop and you can rest.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Morren insisted.

  Trahern wanted to take her hand, to offer her support, but he knew she’d refuse. They travelled downhill, and he could see her breath in the cold autumn air. Morren stepped carefully through the fallen leaves, grasping at tree trunks for balance.

  Her pallor matched the grey sky, and more than once she stumbled. When they reached the edge of the forest, where he’d made his camp two nights earlier, she looked ready to collapse.

  ‘Do you want to go on?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve no choice.’

  Her answer didn’t suit him at all. Without asking, he lifted her into his arms. ‘Pretend you’re walking.’

  She looked panicked and struggled to get away from him. ‘Put me down.’

  ‘If I do, you’ll faint. And we’ll travel faster this way.’ They would have to stop at St Michael’s. Already he’d abandoned the idea of travelling to Glen Omrigh. There was no chance Morren could make the journey.

  He stopped walking when he saw the tension in her body. ‘I know you don’t want me to carry you. But if you can endure this for another hour, we’ll be at the abbey.’

  Her gaze wouldn’t meet his, but she didn’t protest again. Fear was etched within her posture, in the way she tried to distance herself.

  She weighed hardly anything, and Trahern found that it was no hardship at all to carry her. How any man could attack a woman as vulnerable as Morren was beyond his comprehension.

  She had a face that most men wouldn’t notice at first, soft, with unremarkable features. But her blue eyes surprised him. Although they were weary, there was strength and determination in them, despite her physical weakness.

  ‘Was the abbey attacked by the Lochlannach?’ he asked. If there were other threats lingering, he needed to know of them.

  ‘As far as I know, our cashel was the only victim.’ Morren turned her gaze to the horizon where the rolling hills merged into the mountains. ‘I still don’t understand why we were attacked. We’ve lived in peace among the Lochlannach for so long. Some of our women married among the Norse.’

  Trahern walked through the tall grasses, holding Morren close. She couldn’t seem to relax, though he’d done nothing to threaten her.

  ‘Tell me the rest of the story,’ she asked quietly. ‘About Dagda and Eithne.’

  It was natural to slip into the tale, spinning a distraction that both of them needed. Trahern continued where he’d left off, and in the midst of his storytelling, the strained tension in her body seemed to relax.

  ‘The god Dagda wanted to grant his son a piece of land, when Oengus grew to manhood. But the land that Dagda wished to offer was held by a man named Elcmar. Oengus did not want to kill Elcmar, and so it was that he and his men attacked during the celebration of Samhain.

  ‘When Oengus conquered Elcmar, he asked to rule the land, for one day and a single night. Afterwards, both would go to Dagda and ask who should rightfully possess the land.’

  Though Morren remained silent, he saw her face softening as he wove the story. Her lips tilted upwards, when he spoke of Oengus’s trickery.

  ‘When both men came to Dagda, the god proclaimed that it now rightfully belonged to Oengus. For Samhain is a feast where time holds no meaning. And ruling it for a day and a night during that time of celebration is to rule it for eternity.’

  When he’d finished the story, the stone walls of St Michael’s emerged over the horizon, less than a mile away. Trahern set Morren down, asking, ‘Do you want to walk the rest of the distance, or shall I carry you?’ He doubted she’d want to appear like an invalid in front of the monks, but if she lacked the strength, it was no hardship to continue the rest of the way.

  ‘I’ll walk,’ she answered.

 
Made of stone, the abbey stretched high above the landscape, flanked by a round tower. Arched windows, as tall as an ordinary man, encircled the structure, but he could not see any of the brethren at first. At the bottom of the hill, a silver strand of water wove through the countryside.

  Morren held the edges of her cloak around her body, to guard against the cold. ‘You’re planning on leaving me here at the monastery, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’re not strong enough to reach the cashel.’ It was best to grant her the protection of the Church. In this way, he could ensure her safety. ‘I’ll find your sister and bring her back to you.’

  ‘I want to believe you. But I don’t.’

  ‘You think I’m the sort of man who would leave her there alone?’ His temper flared that she would think such a thing. ‘I’m the one who sent her for help. It’s my obligation to bring her back to you.’

  ‘Jilleen is just a girl, a stranger to you.’ She exhaled a breath, still not trusting him. ‘What if the Lochlannach found her?’

  ‘Stop thinking like that. We don’t know why she didn’t return. But I promise you, I’ll find her.’

  ‘You’re a bard, not a warrior.’

  Trahern took a step forward, using his height in an unspoken warning. Morren met his gaze, and he rested his hand upon his sword. ‘Be assured, Morren, I know how to fight. And defend.’ He’d spent years of his life practising with his brothers. Though he might be older than many, he hadn’t lost any of his abilities. If anything, his instincts were sharper.

  Morren’s blue eyes faltered, and she looked away. Good. He wasn’t used to women doubting him.

  ‘If I had been there that night,’ he vowed, ‘each and every one of the Lochlannach fighters would be dead. They’d not have laid a hand upon you or Ciara.’

  Morren’s shoulders lowered. ‘Would that it were so.’ She didn’t look at him, and he saw that words would not convince her. She picked up the long hem of his cloak and continued walking.

  They travelled on in silence until they reached the stone chapel. Trahern was about to enter when he sniffed the air. The acrid scent of smoke suddenly permeated the landscape.

  Morren moved to the crest of the hill, and Trahern spied billowing smoke clouds rising in the distance. From his vantage point, he saw flames rising from the fallen cashel in the distance.

  ‘They’re back.’ Morren’s hands moved to cover her mouth, and her face went white.

  Trahern half-pushed Morren towards the chapel. From within, he heard the plain chant of the monks echoing. ‘Stay here with the brethren. I’m going after them.’

  ‘You have no horse,’ she protested. ‘They’ll cut you down.’

  ‘They won’t touch me.’ Trahern checked his weapons and cast her one final look. ‘I’m going to find out why they’ve returned. And what it is they want.’

  ‘Be careful,’ she urged.

  He caught her hand in his. ‘Wait for me, Morren. I’ll be back by sunset.’

  Chapter Three

  The remains of Glen Omrigh were ghostly, with charred grasses surrounding the cashel. The wooden palisade wall was blackened and ruined in sections, the air heavy with smoke.

  Trahern crouched low in the tall grasses, watching the silhouettes of two horsemen. It had taken him nearly an hour to reach the fortress, due to the hilly terrain, and the afternoon sun had already begun to drift downwards.

  The invaders wore the clothing of the Lochlannach, Viking raiders by the look of it. Their long cloaks were fastened with large bronze brooches, and although the taller man wore no armour, Trahern sensed he would make a formidable opponent. His companion was shorter, with darker blond hair. Trahern grasped the hilt of his sword, while he pondered whether or not he could defeat them alone. It would be dangerous.

  One of the huts was still burning, the thatch bright orange with flames. Smoke rose high into the air, the acrid scent smothering the cashel.

  Trahern watched the two men as they patrolled the remaining huts, inspecting the contents. Not a single other person did he see. Any Ó Reilly survivors had abandoned the cashel.

  Trahern kept one hand on his sword hilt when the men rode closer. Their faces showed displeasure, and he overheard them arguing in the Norse tongue.

  They weren’t here to attack, it was clear, nor to steal the tribe’s valuables or supplies. Instead, the men’s expressions were grim, as though dissatisfied by what they saw.

  Trahern moved in closer, keeping his body pressed to the ground. Dry grass tickled his face, the cold earth damp with frost. When he reached the outer palisade wall, he crept nearer to a burned section to get a better look.

  One of the riders was on a familiar mount. It was Barra, the destrier that he’d paid a damned fortune for. The black horse was nervous from the smoke, prancing his feet. If the Lochlannach thief didn’t control Barra, he’d find himself on his backside.

  Though Trahern wanted to attack the two men and regain his horse, logic forced him to hold back. He needed answers, and these men would lead him to them.

  Within a few more minutes, the Vikings left the settlement and rode west. Trahern was torn between following them or entering the cashel to search for Jilleen Ó Reilly. Though he believed they’d taken her, he couldn’t be certain.

  He cast a backward glance at the men before racing inside the cashel. Heavy smoke choked the air in his lungs, and heat blazed from the burning hut. He had only a few moments to spare before he had to follow the men.

  Fate blessed him, for near the outer gate lay one of the shoes he’d given to Jilleen. Whether the girl had dropped it on purpose or whether she’d lost it didn’t matter. It confirmed that she was here. And he knew who’d taken her.

  His fist curled around his sword hilt. The Lochlannach would answer for this.

  Trahern picked up the shoe and ran back to the trail, running behind the men. He found a second shoe only a mile further, on the same path travelled by the riders.

  When he reached the top of the next hill, he dropped low to study the men. They were travelling towards the Viking settlement along the coast. He’d seen it before, but knew he couldn’t make it there by nightfall, not without a horse.

  He cursed, for he had no alternative except to turn back. He needed to borrow a mount from the monks.

  Frustration shredded his patience, and he began the walk back to the abbey. Donning his own shoes once more, he imagined exactly how he would break through the Viking forces.

  The abbot granted Morren the hospitality of St Michael’s, and an older monk, Brother Chrysoganus, led her to the guest house adjoining the monastery. He offered her a kindly smile and began filling a basin with water. When Morren realised he meant to bathe her feet as a gesture of welcome, she interrupted.

  ‘Forgive me, Brother Chrysoganus, but I would prefer to wash my own feet.’ She couldn’t bear the idea of anyone touching her just now, even if it was a tradition.

  The older man appeared surprised by her declaration, but he deferred. ‘If that is your wish.’ Offering her the basin, he added, ‘I must join the others for none. If you have need of anything afterwards, you’ve only to ask.’

  Morren nodded, unwrapping the leather shoes Trahern had made for her. She rested her bare feet in the warm water. ‘Thank you, Brother.’ After he’d gone, she bathed her feet and let them sit in the warm water for a few minutes.

  The bells sounded for none, and she heard the monks’ voices rising and falling in plain chant. The simple tones were soothing, but when her hands moved over her skin, she started to tremble.

  Dark memories pulled her down, the men’s faces taunting her. Morren tried to block it out, but the nightmare of the attack returned. She lowered her head, nausea forming in her stomach. God help her, she couldn’t bear this. Her hands moved to her empty stomach, and the coldness seemed to envelop her, drowning her.

  Don’t think of it, she warned herself. Forget.

  Closing her eyes, she removed her feet from the basin and sank to her knees
. The haunting voices of the monks echoed within the stone chapel, their prayers rising into the air. The coldness swallowed her up, taking her back into the numbness that she needed to survive. There had been no one to save her, no mercy. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve such a fate.

  Worse, there had come a time when she’d stopped fighting. She’d lain there, staring at the dark sky, waiting for it to be over. Shame swelled up inside her, for she should have struggled. Used her fists, her teeth—anything.

  Instead, she’d prayed to die.

  Her gaze fell upon the crude shoes lying beside the basin. Trahern had fashioned them for her, not wanting her to suffer from the cold. A hard lump formed in her throat at his kind gesture.

  She suspected he wasn’t coming back. Though he’d sworn he’d return at sunset, she wasn’t certain he would keep his word. Her hands clenched together, and Morren forced herself to rise. Leaving the guest chamber behind, she stumbled to the one place that would offer sanctuary to her troubled thoughts: the garden.

  Inside the monks’ small courtyard there were neatly tended plots that had not a single weed. A few heads of cabbage were left behind, along with herbs. In the corner, tucked away behind one of the apple trees, she saw an abandoned garden.

  It was covered in dead weeds, left alone to grow over. Perhaps the monks no longer had a need for it, but she longed for something useful to do.

  Over the next few hours, Morren busied herself clearing out the waste, working the good nutrients back into the barren soil. Perhaps, in the spring, they might find a purpose for the bed. The soil needed to rest through the winter, but in spring it would yield a good harvest if someone tended to it.

  The distraction did nothing to cease her worry for Trahern. Likely another attack was happening at the cashel right now. He was alone, and though his strength was undeniable, if the Lochlannach found him they would kill him.