She stopped in front of the door, about to leave. ‘If you’re alive when the sun rises, put all thoughts of escape out of your mind. This is your home now. This is the path you’re meant to take. God has put you here, perhaps to teach you humility. And you must accept your fate.’
* * *
He slept, harder than ever before. It was as if his body could not heal itself until he’d made up for every hour he’d lost. The sunlight pierced his vision when the door opened. Kieran rubbed his eyes and saw the dagger still beside him.
His penance, she’d said. And though invisible ropes tightened around his throat at the knowledge of his slavery, he knew she was right. He had failed his brother. He deserved to lose his birthright and his family. To become a slave, to accept this punishment.
The door swung open and his master, Davin Ó Falvey, entered the hut. His expression was grim.
‘You caused a grave inconvenience to my men last night. I don’t know how you managed to free yourself from the ropes, but I won’t let it happen again. I’ll sell you back to the traders, and they can do what they will with you.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘Unless you’ve changed your mind about the carving.’
There was no doubt Davin meant what he said. Many slaves were traded by the Norsemen, sent across the sea to Byzantium or to faraway lands. And though his life would never again be the same, at least he could remain upon his homeland.
All he had to do was agree to complete the dower chest. It wasn’t as if he had a choice, was it? He had to endure this fate and complete whatever task was ordered of him.
He sat up slowly, pressing through the pain. ‘I’ll begin working on the chest this day.’
Davin’s shoulders lowered slightly, a barely perceptible relaxation. ‘Not yet. Before I let you touch the chest, you must first prove your skills.’
Prove his skills? He’d been carving wood since he could hold a knife. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t bring to life from a block of wood. This is your penance, he reminded himself, swallowing his frustration and resentment.
‘I want you to carve a likeness of my bride Iseult. If I find it worthy of her beauty, I will allow you to finish the chest.’
He might have known. The woman loathed the sight of him, and he didn’t have any desire to spend time with Iseult MacFergus. Yet he had no choice if he wanted to capture her spirit in the wood.
‘If I carve her likeness, you won’t have the dower chest in time for a bridal gift.’ It was a last, fruitless attempt to change his master’s mind.
‘I would like the figure, nonetheless.’ Davin opened the door wider and pointed towards one of the huts. The morning sun illuminated the interior of the ringfort, the glaring light burning his eyes.
‘The smallest hut belonged to our woodcarver, Seamus,’ Davin said. ‘Inside, you will find the tools you need.’
‘And the wood?’
‘It is there.’ Davin leaned down and picked up the knife Deena had left behind. ‘You will begin the carving after your confinement.’
Confinement? His knuckles clenched as the full weight of his slavery pressed down upon his shoulders. He was to be punished for running away again. Of course.
‘For three days, you’ll remain guarded, in isolation. If you do as you are told, on the last day the guards will leave, and you’ll be permitted to begin the carving.’ Davin tossed the knife and caught it by the hilt. ‘You should be grateful for Iseult’s mercy. I would have confined you outside for the three days.’
‘I don’t need a woman’s pity.’ The words came forth, behind a backlash of anger. ‘There is no punishment I am unable to endure.’
Davin leaned down, the knife glinting. ‘I will not tolerate disrespect towards her. She asked me to grant you mercy. For her sake, I will.’ He turned the blade close to Kieran’s skin in an unspoken threat. ‘I’ll send the guards now. They’ll take you to Seamus’s hut.’ Without another word, he strode outside into the sunlight.
Kieran rolled over and stared up at the ceiling of thatch and wood. He didn’t want to waste his days carving a woman’s likeness. It didn’t matter that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He hardly needed Iseult’s presence to create the image. Already he could see the curve of her cheek, the sadness in her expression.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the vision of the last female likeness he’d created. He’d almost wed Branna, but her heart had belonged to another man in the end.
Treacherous work, indeed.
* * *
‘I’ll come with you,’ Davin said.
His offer didn’t make Iseult feel better. Just the thought of being watched by the slave, letting him carve her image, made her nervous.
‘I’d rather not do this at all.’ She moved to a basket of mending Muirne had set aside and picked up a bone needle. The sewing gave her something to occupy her hands. ‘It makes me feel vain. What need do we have of a likeness?’
‘I want it.’ He came up behind her, resting his hands upon her shoulders. ‘I want something of you, for when we are apart.’
‘You’ll see me every day.’ She wanted to talk him out of this. No other man had ever shaken her up in this way. There was something about the slave, both terrifying and fascinating.
On the day she’d found him bound outside in the rain, despite the miserable conditions, he had refused to let it break him. He was a fighter to his core. Somehow he’d freed himself, half-dragging his body through the mud in a desperate attempt for freedom.
Would she have done the same?
A pang clutched at her heart. Not for herself. But if she ever received word of her son, then, yes, she would never stop searching, no matter what happened.
Davin had no choice but to punish the slave; she knew that. But she didn’t want to face Kieran again. The idea of seeing him bound to the mound of hostages, exposed to the elements, would only make the man even more savage. Like a wild animal, prepared to strike out at those who harmed him.
She hadn’t wanted to see him again. Not like that. It was why she’d asked Davin to confine Kieran elsewhere. As if hiding him would make him disappear. Childish thoughts. She had to face him sooner or later, but if she showed him her fear, Kieran would only exploit it.
‘Did he harm you?’ Davin asked.
He’d questioned her about it before. And the truth was, he hadn’t.
‘No. It was only words. He was in a great deal of pain.’ She shrugged it off as though it were nothing. Rising to her feet, she took Davin’s hands in hers. His broad palms covered her own, making her feel safe. ‘Is this truly important to you? The carving?’
‘It is. But more than that, it’s part of a gift I want to give you. He’s going to finish your dower chest.’
She wanted to say that it was simply a wooden container, with no meaning. But he’d commissioned Seamus to make it into a work of art, into a treasure. Though Davin wouldn’t say why, she could see that it meant more to him.
She let out a breath. ‘Then I’ll go.’ Laying a hand upon his cheek, she added, ‘And I’ll take a guard with me. You needn’t come. I know your responsibilities to your father are more important.’ As the chieftain’s son, Davin had his own leadership duties. Not only that, but she refused to let this slave believe she was afraid of him.
She would not let an insolent man dominate her. Squaring her shoulders, she prepared herself for what was to come.
* * *
Three days later, Iseult strode inside the woodcarver’s hut, as though meeting with the slave were an inconvenience instead of something she dreaded. Be confident, she reminded herself. Don’t be afraid of him.
‘You.’ She pointed at the slave. ‘What sort of spell did you cast upon Davin?’
Kieran turned around, a whetstone and iron blade in his hands. ‘No spell.’ Though it was only a carver’s knife, Iseult’s heart beat a little faster. The way he held the blade intimidated her. He drew it across the whetstone, honing it to a razor’s edge.
; She grimaced and dropped the bag of supplies Davin had sent before sitting down upon a tree stump. Outside the hut, she had brought one of Davin’s men. The guard was more than a little irritated, having to watch over her, but it made her feel better.
‘I suppose you know why I am here. For the carving, I mean.’ The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She sounded like a babbling young maiden instead of a calm woman. Of course he knew why she was here.
‘You want an image of yourself out of wood.’ He spoke the words with a casual air.
How could he think that? This wasn’t her idea at all. It was the last thing she desired.
‘It was Davin’s wish,’ she corrected. ‘I had nothing to do with this.’ She wanted so badly to turn around and run.
But then, from the gleam in his eye, she wondered if Kieran was provoking her on purpose. His black hair hung unkempt about his shoulders, his demon eyes as dark as his soul. His tunic hung upon him, still bloodstained from the marks upon his back.
‘You won’t have to stay long,’ he said. There was a hint of resentment beneath his tone, as if he hated anyone commanding him. He set down the knife, wrapping it carefully in leather before picking up a gouge.
Iseult looked around at Seamus’s hut. She’d visited a time or two, and although the space was by no means built for a family, it was large enough for two people. A pallet stood at one end, a work bench at the other. It was no wider than thirteen feet in diameter, made of wattle and daub. The roof often leaked, as she recalled. ‘You’re staying here?’
‘For now. Until he commands otherwise.’ Again, she sensed the rebellion within his voice.
Iseult studied the work bench. Kieran had spent the afternoon preparing the tools, it seemed. Rows of knives and gouges were spread out upon the table, along with wooden mallets and chisels. The air smelled of wood shavings, and he’d built a fire in the hearth.
She sniffed suspiciously, then turned to him. ‘What did you eat this evening for your meal?’
Kieran said nothing, lifting a block of yew. He sat upon a wooden stump, opposite her. His hands moved over the wood, studying it. He was so intent upon it, he didn’t answer her question.
She already knew the answer. He hadn’t eaten at all. And from his pride, this was not a man who would ask for help. She didn’t know what kind of food or drink he’d had during his confinement, but it couldn’t have been much of anything.
It pricked her conscience, to see a man suffering. Even this one, as harsh as he was, did not deserve to starve. If she offered to prepare food, he’d never touch it.
No. Better to appear that she was angry with him. Then he would eat, if for no other reason than to defy her.
‘For the love of Saint Brigid, how do you think you’ll ever finish this carving if you don’t eat?’ Indignant, Iseult grasped one of the iron cauldrons from near the hearth and strode outside. She filled the pot with water and hauled it back in.
The slave blocked her path. His eyes studied hers a moment, and the intense darkness of them caught her attention. Bruises and cuts lined his cheeks, and his jaw held a dark swelling. Beneath the unkempt appearance was a startlingly handsome man. Not the noble looks of Davin, but features more brutal and arresting.
‘I don’t take things that do not belong to me.’ His hands curled over the iron handle, brushing against her as he took the pot from her. Iseult nearly jerked backwards at the contact.
What in the name of heaven was the matter with her? Her cheeks warmed as he set the cauldron over the fire. She busied herself with peeling vegetables from the supplies she’d brought. It kept her from having to meet his gaze.
‘I promised Davin I’d stay for an hour,’ she said, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit and stare. You’ll have to start carving now. After I’ve finished cooking, I’m leaving.’
She found a cloth-wrapped package of mutton inside her bag and chopped the meat, adding it to the water. A lock of hair fell forwards, and she brushed it aside.
All of her frustration and fury seemed to pour out of her. It had been another wasted day, with no news of her son. She wanted to curl up on her pallet and indulge herself in a fit of weeping. Instead, she had to endure the company of this man.
‘You aren’t flattered that your betrothed wants this carving?’ he asked.
A slight scratching noise sounded from behind her.
‘No. I’ve better things to do.’ She rather be with Muirne and the children, helping to tell the boys stories. Anything to occupy herself and keep her from thinking about Aidan.
When she’d finished setting the ingredients in the stew, she turned back. He hadn’t touched the block of wood. Instead, he was using a piece of charcoal to sketch a drawing onto a flat board.
‘What are you doing?’
‘As you’ve said, you have better things to do. I’ll capture your image on the board and carve it later.’ His hands moved rapidly, and Iseult drew nearer to see what he’d done.
He lifted the board away, hiding it from her view. ‘Not yet,’ was all he said.
‘You’ve probably drawn me with two noses and three chins,’ she remarked.
A flicker of amusement tilted at his mouth. ‘No. But I thought of drawing horns and a forked tongue.’
Iseult sobered, stirring the pot of stew. She wasn’t at all that sort of woman. Sweet-natured, Davin had called her.
But around this man, she was transforming into a shrew.
Instead of trying to come up with a swift retort, she stared at the pot of stew and imagined adding henbane to it. Then she realised that she’d forgotten any seasonings. And she’d put the vegetables in too soon.
As time crept onward, the peas grew mushy, and the meat tougher. She bit her tongue, knowing she was a miserable cook. Part of her thought it served him right, while the other part was ashamed at her lack of skills. What kind of a wife would she make for Davin?
Finally, she ladled a wooden bowl full of the stew and found a spoon for him to use. Kieran eyed the pitiful mashed vegetables and the meat boiled to death.
‘Eat,’ she ordered. ‘I won’t have you dropping dead when I’ve gone to this trouble.’
It was growing more difficult to uphold her bravado. She’d done a terrible job of cooking, but he made no remark on its lack of flavour, eating it slowly.
‘What will you do next?’ she asked when he’d finished the meal and set the bowl aside.
‘I’ll draw your face onto the wood and do a stop cut with this knife.’ He held up a short blade, and the way he held it struck Iseult like a man ready for battle. With the cuts and bruises upon his face, she could imagine him riding from the field, battle cries resounding from his lips.
After Kieran set down the blade, he picked up the charcoal and board again. His gaze travelled over her face and down her body. He drew more slowly, watching her as though he could see deep within her.
Her heart pulsed beneath her skin. She considered calling the guard inside. Being alone with the slave made her wary.
Abruptly, Kieran shifted the rhythm. His hands moved rapidly with smooth strokes, as though he were capturing her without even thinking. She noticed several scars along his hands, like blade marks from battle.
‘You were not a slave before this, were you?’ she predicted.
He shrugged, casting a brief glance at her before turning back to the drawing.
‘You’re too confident to be a slave,’ she continued, ‘and too arrogant for a woodcarver.’ She doubted if he were a king, but possibly a warrior or a chieftain’s son.
‘It doesn’t matter what I was before,’ he said, setting the board aside. The formidable expression on his face warned her not to ask any more questions. ‘Only what I am now.’
She reached out to take the bowl and spoon, and a glint of trouble sparked in his eyes. Without realising it, she found herself studying the lean angles of his face, the harsh jaw that cut lines down to a tight mouth.
He disconcerted her,
and yet she could not stop staring at him. Her body shivered, growing cold as he answered the gaze with soulless eyes. Quickly, Iseult changed the subject. ‘Do you miss your family?’
‘I don’t think of them any more.’ The bitterness in his tone voiced another warning. ‘They have their lives, and I have mine.’
She shivered at the utter bleakness of such a life. Without meaning to, her thoughts went back to Aidan. Ever since he had been stolen away, there was an emptiness inside her that could not be filled. She gripped her arms, as if to force the sadness away.
‘How did you end up a slave?’
He stopped drawing and set the board aside. ‘We’ve finished for tonight.’
He walked past her and lifted the hide flap in a wordless command to leave. Iseult paused before the door. In that fraction of a second, her gaze drew to his. He was staring at her, as though she had cut off the air to his lungs. Her skin warmed, and when she looked at him, it was as though she had become the slave and he the conqueror.
Without looking back, she stumbled into the night.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Kieran!’ his brother pleaded. The men dragged Egan to the edge of the wooden palisade and pulled back his brother’s neck. With a casual glance to Kieran, they drew the blade across Egan’s throat.
His brother never made a sound. A cry tore from Kieran’s lungs when the boy’s body struck the ground. The raiders never looked back, but stepped over Egan as if he were nothing but an inconvenience.
Kieran sat up from the dream, his hands shaking. Sweat poured over his brow, and he buried his face in his hands. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was. The early morning light filtered through the crevices below the hide door. He ran his hands through his hair, staggering to his feet.
He went outside, inhaling sharp bursts of air, as if it could expel the nightmare. He’d lived with the memory for several moons now, and he doubted if it would ever leave.
In the cool morning stillness, he saw other slaves and members of the fudir tending the fields. He should have been among them. Hard labour was what he deserved, not a chance to do something he loved.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 3
