Warrior of Fire

by Michelle Willingham

  No, she was not his to protect. But neither would he abandon her. He had finished burying the holy men, and before he returned to his commander and the other soldiers, he could bring her to safety. At least then he would know that she had come to no harm.

  Raine pushed the door open, and the chamber was warm and inviting. The peat fire glowed upon the hearth, casting shadows within the room. A simple cross hung upon one wall, and beside the hearth was a wooden chair. The woman was sleeping within his bed, her breathing deep and even. He moved silently, setting the food down on a low table before returning to the shadows.

  Raine knew he should be resentful that this woman had stolen his bed. Instead he felt...grateful that he could give her a place to sleep. There was the sense that he could watch her sleep, all night long, and he would enjoy the peace upon her face.

  She stirred a moment, and he remained against the far wall out of the light. But a moment later, she sat up in the bed. Her long brown hair hung over her shoulders, and her eyes opened. They were a clear blue, like a summer sky. A sudden wariness crossed over him, for she was easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  Which meant that her presence would be missed, and men would pursue her.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ she said quietly. ‘You built the fire up while I was sleeping.’

  She spoke in Irish, and for once, he was thankful that he’d learned their language. He understood her, although he had difficulty speaking beyond a handful of words. Though he had lived in Éireann for more than two years, he said nothing, not wanting to frighten her. And yet, he had a hundred questions he wanted to ask this woman. Who she was...why she was here.

  After a time, she asked, ‘Do you intend to harm me?’ There was weariness in her voice as if she hardly cared anymore.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You are safe.’ He said nothing else, letting her draw whatever conclusions she would—though his armour made it clear that he was not a monk.

  ‘You are a Norman soldier,’ she predicted, studying his appearance.

  ‘Je suis.’ There was no reason to deny it, particularly when her gaze had settled upon the conical helm he had set aside.

  She let out a slow breath and surprised him by switching into his own language. ‘Will you come into the light, so that I may see you?’

  He didn’t want her to see his face. Let her think of him as one of hundreds of nameless soldiers, men easily forgotten. If she never saw him, it would be easier for him to fade from her memory. He wanted no one to remember him, no one to know who he was. It was the only way he could protect himself from being recognised—especially if he succeeded in the task his commander had set before him.

  ‘I will remain here,’ he answered in his own language. ‘You may sleep in peace, and I will watch over you for the night.’

  She stiffened at that. ‘And what is it you’re wanting from me in return?’

  He had no expectations of her, but simply answered, ‘Tell me your name.’

  She seemed to relax at his request, recognising that he had no intention of harming her. ‘I am Carice Faoilin, of Carrickmeath. And you?’

  ‘I am Raine de Garenne.’ The name would mean nothing to her, he was certain.

  She pulled the coverlet higher and asked, ‘Are you alone here?’

  ‘I am.’ At least for now. It was likely that other priests and holy men might come to view the damage when they received word of the fire. By then, he intended to be gone.

  ‘Why? Where are the rest of your men?’

  ‘I will join them in the morning. I stopped here only for a short while.’ But he would not tell her all of his reasons.

  Instead he said, ‘There is food and drink, should you want them. I bid you adieu.’ He kept his hood over his head to shield his appearance from her, departing the room before she could ask more questions.

  * * *

  The next morning, Carice awakened in a strange bed. The sheets held the unfamiliar scent of a man’s body. It was like being entangled with someone else, though she knew she had slept alone. And although bits of memory returned, making her realise where she was, she felt an intimacy with the man whose bed she had shared.

  Raine had kept his word not to harm her, and she had slept soundly, feeling safer than she had in years—which made no sense at all. Slowly, she sat up, holding the bed coverlet close. It was always difficult to stay warm, and she was never comfortable any more—not really.

  But strangely, the night of rest had renewed her strength. She eased her legs to the side of the bed and saw the food and drink waiting near the fire. There was also a basin of water upon the floor near the hearth. Curious, she eased out of bed and walked slowly towards the waiting chair. She sank down upon it and then reached out to the basin of water. Steam rose on the surface, and she realised then, that he’d heated it for her.

  Her heart stumbled at that. When she touched the water, the heat made her sigh with pleasure. How had he known when she would awaken? She eased off her stockings on impulse and placed her freezing feet into the warmed water.

  Bliss sank through her, and she smiled as the heat overtook her. Though she knew nothing about Raine de Garenne, he had sensed her needs and cared for her in a way she’d never anticipated.

  The food was meagre, only a bit of dried meat, walnuts, and raw parsnips. But she recognised the offering for what it was—the best he had to give. She ate the meat and walnuts, and was deeply grateful when her stomach did not ache at the food.

  At Carrickmeath, the constant nausea and stomach difficulties had been neverending. Only after she’d left, had her aches diminished. It had made her wonder if someone had been trying to poison her in her father’s house. She couldn’t understand why, if that were true. There was no reason for anyone to harm her—she had no power at all within the tribe. Although she was betrothed to the High King, her death would accomplish nothing.

  But since she’d left, each day had become a little easier. At least now when she ate, she didn’t feel as if knives were carving up her insides. Perhaps it was the taste of freedom that made food more tolerable.

  Carice had just reached for the parsnip, when her door opened. In the daylight, she got a better glimpse of Raine, though he was still wearing the hood to hide his features. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered like a fighter. He wore chain mail armour with a leather corselet and a long sword hung sheathed at his waist. Under one arm, he carried his conical helm.

  Why did he continue to hide his face? She was curious about this man and the mysteries surrounding him.

  ‘Thank you for the warm water. And for the food,’ she said, speaking the Norman tongue. ‘I am sorry. I should have saved you some, but I fear there’s only a parsnip—’ She held up the white root vegetable apologetically, but he dismissed her offer.

  ‘It was meant for you,’ he countered. ‘I’ve already eaten.’ He crossed his arms over his chest, staring at her.

  It made her uncomfortable, and Carice asked, ‘Won’t you sit, then?’

  And remove your hood so that I may see your face, she thought to herself. He was clearly hiding his identity, though she could not guess why.

  ‘Where are your escorts?’ he asked. ‘Who was guarding you?’

  She removed her feet from the basin of water and dried them with the hem of her gown before replacing her shoes. ‘No one. I was running away.’

  ‘From whom?’

  Carice sent him a half-smile. ‘My father was escorting me to my wedding. I am betrothed to the High King of Éireann.’ She remarked, ‘I suppose you’ll want to turn me over to them for a reward. They would pay handsomely for my safe return.’ Most men would be eager to hand her over for the promise of silver or gold. But she rather hoped that he would leave her alone.

  Raine paused a moment before his hand moved to the hilt of his sword. �
�It’s more likely that your father would kill me, believing I was the one who took you.’

  His candour revealed a man of intelligence. ‘That is indeed possible.’ She straightened the hem of her gown and stood up from the chair. ‘If you would help me to disappear where they’ll never find me, I could compensate you for your assistance.’

  He didn’t move as she took a step closer. Then another.

  ‘Please consider it,’ she said softly, reaching towards his hood.

  His hands seized her wrists, drawing them downward. His grip was firm, almost bruising. ‘I have other duties more important than you, chérie.’

  Carice drew back, startled by his refusal. ‘I don’t doubt that. But I was only asking for your help.’

  She tried to pull away, but he held her wrists fast, as if he had more to say. His silence made it clear that he wasn’t going to help her escape. Her nerves took control, and she continued talking too fast.

  ‘Trahern MacEgan was supposed to help me leave last night, but he never arrived. I had no choice but to run, while we were still far away from Tara.’

  Raine gave no response. Slowly, his thumbs edged the pulse point of her wrists, the heat of his touch burning through her. Why did he continue to hold her hands? Carice stilled, and the caress moved through her like a wave of yearning.

  Her heartbeat quickened, and his fingers laced with hers. Never had any man touched her in this way, and her mind envisioned his hands moving over her bare flesh. Upon his forearms, she saw the evidence of scarring, the healed wounds of battle. Perhaps his face held the same. Was that why he would not reveal himself?

  She took an unsteady breath, and said, ‘I don’t know if anyone will come for me or not.’

  ‘I know of the MacEgans,’ Raine said at last. ‘I will look for Trahern and bring him back if he is nearby. But soon, you must leave.’ He let go of her hands, and the heat of his palms remained upon her skin.

  Her heart was pounding, and she turned her back. ‘What if you cannot find him? Am I to go on alone?’

  ‘My duties lie elsewhere. I cannot accompany you.’

  There was another reason; she could sense it. ‘What duties?’ she demanded. ‘There are no other soldiers here. You are alone.’

  ‘For now,’ he acceded. ‘But I am under the command of King Henry,’ he said. There was a hint of darkness in his tone, and he added, ‘His Grace has given me his orders, and those I must obey.’

  In a crumbling abbey? Although he had no reason to lie to her, his words made little sense. Her thoughts drifted back to the fresh graves she had seen. Had he been ordered to burn the abbey and kill the monks? Was that why he’d been sent here? She swallowed hard, not wanting to believe it. ‘A king would have no interest in a place like this.’

  His posture stiffened, and she took a step backwards. ‘You know not King Henry’s orders, chérie. And you do not know me.’

  He was trying to frighten her, she was certain. And perhaps he was a ruthless fighter and the king’s man. But then...he had brought her food and warmed water. These were not the actions of a cruel man. She sensed that he was here for a very different reason.

  ‘You are right,’ she agreed. ‘But you showed me kindness, for which I am grateful.’ She nodded towards the hearth where the basin of water remained.

  Again, he held his silence for a time. Carice didn’t know what to say, but she didn’t truly want to know what had happened in this place—or Raine’s part in it. She took a step towards the hearth, and the motion unsettled her. Despite the food she’d eaten, the effects of her illness began to set in.

  Her ears rang as the dizziness swept over her. She rested her palm against the wall, trying to take steady breaths. Please, not now. Not when she had come so far. The tide of weakness washed over her, stealing away her vision.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked quietly.

  She turned to Raine, but his hooded features blurred. The room spun, and her hand slipped against the wall.

  She cursed herself, knowing she wasn’t going to make it to the bed. A moment later, her knees collapsed, sending the world into blackness.

  * * *

  Raine barely caught the young woman before she fainted. One moment Carice was speaking, and the next, she dropped like a stone. He carried her over to the bed, bothered by how light she was. His mouth set into a line as he lowered her to the mattress. Despite his demand for her to leave, she was incapable of making any journey, as weak as she was. And unless he left her behind, he wasn’t going to meet his commander on the morrow.

  Her face was the colour of snow, and he didn’t know the nature of her illness. He poured a cup of wine for her and waited for her to regain consciousness. It took a moment, but when her eyes fluttered open, he saw the fear in them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I wasn’t feeling well.’

  ‘You need to return to your family,’ he said, ‘where they can take better care of you.’

  ‘Where I’ll be sent to wed a man old enough to be my father.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve no wish for that.’

  ‘It’s what marriages are,’ he told her. ‘Nothing more than an alliance.’

  ‘I am going to die, Raine. My time grows short, and I do not wish to spend my last months wedded to a monster.’

  The urge to deny it came to his lips, but he could see the fragility in her body. The weariness there was more than exhaustion from a journey.

  ‘I have been ill for years now,’ she said. ‘And each day is worse than the next.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Surely you can understand that I would prefer to die as a free woman.’ A wistful look crossed her face. ‘The day will come when I cannot bear to live in this pain any longer. And then it will end.’

  ‘Is it a wasting sickness, then?’ He had seen men and women die in such ways before.

  A twisted smile came over her. ‘In a manner of speaking. I can hardly eat without becoming sick.’ She leaned back and stretched her arm over her head. It brought the curve of her breasts to his attention. Oui, she was thin. But he wondered what she would look like if her body were filled out with plumpness.

  ‘Is it always this way?’ Undoubtedly her illness had caused her to collapse. But he had never heard of a wasting sickness that involved food—unless it was poison of some kind.

  ‘Usually it’s worse,’ she admitted. ‘But this meal was small, and sometimes that helps.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘You may as well remove your hood, you know. I saw your face when you were leaning down over me.’

  He ignored her, for it might have been a ploy. ‘It is better if you do not see my face.’ Though she might not have a memory of him, it seemed wiser to remain shadowed—especially when he’d been ordered to kill her betrothed husband, the High King of Éireann.

  ‘I would still know you, even if I hadn’t glimpsed your face.’

  Her response surprised him, and he couldn’t help but ask, ‘How?’

  ‘Because of your voice,’ she murmured. ‘I would know you from the moment you spoke.’ Her eyes opened then. ‘Your voice is deep and low, almost wild.’

  He was unnerved by what she’d said. Her words cast a spell over him, drawing him nearer. No woman had ever had this effect, stirring his senses in the way she did. He wanted to rest his hand on either side of her shoulders, leaning in to kiss her, learning the shape of her mouth.

  Instead, he said gruffly, ‘Rest now. I will return later.’

  He needed to hunt, to bring back food for both of them. And while he was away, he could search for the MacEgan man she had spoken of.

  A grimness settled over him, for he had met the MacEgans in battle before. Later, their king, Patrick MacEgan, had married a Norman bride. While there might be peace between their people now, Raine knew to never underestimate the power of Irish loyalty.

&nbs
p; ‘If anyone comes, bolt the door,’ he warned. He didn’t like leaving her defenceless, but there was no choice. He had to bring back more food to nourish Lady Carice, despite the risks. Though her illness had likely caused her to faint, he also didn’t believe she’d eaten enough.

  After he departed the chamber, he went down the stairs and returned outside. As he cast a look back at the ruins, a sense of guilt passed over him. He felt responsible for the brethren who had lived within these walls. The abbot and the holy men were innocent, blameless for what had happened. The raiders had been seeking holy treasures, and they had set the abbey on fire during the attack.

  The moment he’d witnessed the flames against the night sky, he should have ridden hard to reach the men instead of alerting his commander. The delay had meant the difference between life and death.

  Raine stopped before one of the graves, brushing the snow from the simple wooden cross he’d made. For a moment, he rested his hand upon the wood, feeling the rise of anger. He’d been too late. Although he’d tried to help the monks escape, their quarters had been consumed by flames and he’d nearly burned to death himself. Had it not been for one of the brethren dragging him out of the fire, he would not have survived. And then that monk had died, too.

  The raw ache flooded through him. He hadn’t been able to save these men any more than his sisters—and he could sense the ghosts of their disapproval haunting his conscience.

  The air was cold, and it was near to Imbolc, the Irish feast of Saint Brighid. Raine returned to the stables to prepare a horse. He wondered if his commander, Sir Darren de Carleigh, would send men to bring him back. It had taken a great deal of convincing for the man to grant him leave. He suspected that Darren had only allowed it because he recognised the need to bury the bodies—and because it was a means of doing penance.

  The two days Raine had spent here alone had given him a false sense of peace. His soul was already damned, but at least he could give the monks a proper burial. He glanced back at the chapel, wondering what to do about Lady Carice. Her very presence had tangled up his plans—but not in the way she imagined. His conscience warned that he should leave her alone...but there was no doubt she could be of use to him.