Her Warrior Slave
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Her action had the intended effect, and he softened. ‘Be careful. If I do not see you by the noon meal, I’m sending men after you.’
He leaned in and kissed her again, this time with more intensity. Iseult accepted it, but her mind was still on the Sullivan tribe. Within a few more moments, she’d know if her search had been for nothing.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she promised.
Kieran strained against his ropes, hardly caring when the hemp bit into his flesh. They had bound him hand and foot, trussed like a fowl about to be roasted.
It was his own fault. He’d thought he could slip away without anyone noticing, forgetting that starvation had robbed him of his strength. When the men had sighted him, he’d fought them off as well as he could. Wounded a few of them, too, but in the end it hadn’t mattered. His strength was diminished almost to a boy’s. Blood matted his skin, his lips split from one of their punches. His back blazed with an unholy fire from the lash marks.
Would they kill him now? He steeled himself for it. Lowering his gaze, he stared at the damp earth. The scent of the smoke and straw were similar to his home in the south of Éireann. So far from here, almost a world apart. Away from those who would cast blame upon him.
He shouldered every pound of the guilt. It was his fault that Egan had died. If he could have put himself in his younger brother’s place, he’d have died a thousand deaths. Only three and ten, his brother had never had the chance to grow to manhood.
Kieran saw the flash of a blade, but didn’t move. A tall bearded man stood before him. He wore a dark green tunic, trimmed with gold thread. Wielding the knife in one hand, the man dismissed the others, authority evident in his voice. Their chieftain, perhaps, judging from his costly garments.
The man addressed him. ‘I am Davin Ó Falvey.’
His owner. The possessive sound in the man’s voice made Kieran want to snarl. He’d never been slave to any man, and bitter resentment filled him at his fate. ‘You’re the man who bought me.’
‘I am. And from the stories they’ve told, I suspect you’d like me to slice this blade across your throat.’
Kieran lifted his chin in an invitation. ‘Do it, then.’
Davin tilted the knife in the sunlight, the blade flashing. ‘I could. But then you’d get what you want. And I’d have lost the silver I spent.’Davin reached down to help him rise to his feet, cutting the bonds around his ankles, but leaving his hands tied. ‘What is your name?’
‘Kieran, of the Ó Brannon tribe.’
‘I’ve heard of your kin. They are a great distance from here, are they not?’
Kieran didn’t answer. Didn’t have to, for Ó Falvey already knew it. He studied his enemy. The flaith exuded a calm confidence, showing not a trace of unease. Davin watched him as if trying to make a decision.
‘You want your freedom. I can understand that, and perhaps I’ll grant it to you in return for your service.’
Kieran didn’t answer, for nothing would make him endure servitude willingly. He’d rather die than live as another man’s slave.
Davin reached into a fold of his cloak and held up a wooden figurine, the carved likeness of his brother Egan. ‘Or perhaps you’d like to earn this back.’
The carving. He cursed, trying to strike out despite his bound hands, but Davin stepped sideways, using his foot to send him sprawling on to the ground. Kieran tasted blood and dirt, hardly caring as he tried to attack again.
Gods above, but the piece of wood was the only thing he had left of Egan. It was only a piece of yew, but he’d given it to his brother years ago. Seeing it in his master’s hands ignited the same anger he’d felt towards the slave traders.
Davin caught him with a punch, and the air went crashing from his lungs. Kieran crouched down, trying to catch a breath. Blood trickled from the wounds on his back, and he bit back the pain.
‘Did you carve this?’ Davin asked softly, fingering the piece.
Kieran only stared at the man, rage seething inside him. He’d made a mistake, showing Davin that the carving was important to him. He forced a neutral expression on to his face as he got up from his knees.
‘You have skill,’ Davin remarked. ‘I think I know a way you can earn your freedom. And this.’ He tucked the figurine away in the fold of his cloak. ‘Come.’Davin grasped the length of rope that held his wrists captive, and Kieran struggled to follow.
He didn’t believe for a moment that Davin would set him free. His limbs ached, and the salty taste of blood lingered in his mouth. More than once, he stumbled, his knees shaking with weakness.
Davin led him inside a darkened hut, where Kieran smelled the stale odours of ale and old straw. Near the door stood a large oak chest, its height reaching the tops of his thighs and the length slightly larger than the spread of his arms.
The intricate carving was old, the wood hard and seasoned. Though his trained eyes saw a few deliberate flaws, nicks set against the grain, the chest was a masterpiece. And it was not yet finished.
‘This is a chest commissioned by my bride’s father. It was supposed to be completed last winter as part of her dowry.’
‘Who carved it?’
‘Seamus did.’ Davin kept his voice low and pointed to the empty pallet. ‘But he fell ill and died a sennight ago.’ He lowered his head out of respect and made the sign of the cross.
Kieran ran his hands over the wood, like a familiar friend. Temptation beckoned, to sink back into the days when he could lose his hours, forgetting all else but the wood. He had missed this.
‘A task such as this would be a simple matter and a worthy use of your time…’Davin paused ‘…unless you’d rather wait upon my father’s table or work in the fields.’
Kieran had no intention of doing either, but didn’t say so. ‘Aren’t you afraid of what I’d do if you gave me an adze or a knife?’
Davin stared at him for a long moment, as if considering whether the threat was genuine. ‘I don’t know who you are, or what lies in your past. But, perhaps once, you were a man of honour. And if that is true, you will not cause harm to others.’
A man of honour. His father had wanted him to become such a man. A future chieftain, someone to shoulder the burdens of the tribe. Perhaps once, he might have considered it. But that part of him was lost forever, from the moment he’d watched Egan die.
Despite his bound hands, Kieran ran his thumb over a thin ridge at the edge of the surface.
‘If your carving is of fine quality, I will grant your freedom,’ Davin said. ‘I give you my word.’ A dark warning flashed in his eyes. ‘If you obey and adhere to my orders.’
Empty promises meant nothing. But the wood beckoned. He could envision the finished chest: patterns of grain for fertility; water and fire to symbolise the ancient gods; and the face of the Virgin Mary to offer comfort to a new bride. It would need tallow to prevent cracking. And sharper tools for carving, since the wood had lost its moisture.
It had been months since he’d held a knife. He wanted a means of forgetting, and this would grant him another chance. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it.
The ropes around his wrists chafed against the unhealed wounds. He closed his eyes, while the memory of his brother Egan rose forth.
Voices taunted him, the bleakness threatening to cut him apart. After all that had happened, he couldn’t allow himself to find joy in the wood.
‘What is your answer?’ Davin asked.
Kieran raised his face to his master’s. ‘No.’
The slave’s arrogance had to be broken. Davin had ordered him bound and left outside. A light spring rain had begun. Perhaps the discomfort would force the man to change his mind.
Never had he seen such skill. Any other man would welcome such a task, for it was far easier than the backbreaking work most slaves endured. He doubted not that it was Kieran who had created the carving of the young boy. From the expression upon the slave’s face when he touched the oak, it was clear that this was a man of expertise.
Perhaps nobility.
Kieran endured pain the way most warriors did. And though it was cruel to expose him to the elements, it had to be done. His tribesmen expected the slave to be punished for attempting an escape.
A flicker of movement caught his attention, and he saw Iseult returning. Her hood was drawn over her face to protect it from the rain.
A lightness spread over him at the sight of her. After Bealtaine, she would belong to him as his wife. To know that he would be with such a woman, would see her beauty every moment of each day, filled him with satisfaction.
She stopped her horse near the mound of hostages and lowered her hood to get a better look at the slave. Davin’s hand tightened upon the hide door, willing Iseult to turn away.
Iseult didn’t speak to the slave. The rain had dampened the man’s black hair, staining his cheeks with water and blood. He sat with his back to the wooden post, his wrists carelessly resting on his knees.
‘Seen enough?’ His low voice abraded her sense of security, making her uneasy. He was rigid with anger, tension filling him.
She wanted to ask what he’d done to deserve this, but he wouldn’t give her the truth. A man like him was never meant to be confined. His eyes were watching the ringfort, as if seeking a way of escape.
She wanted to turn her back on him, to leave him without a second’s thought. But she refused to behave like a coward.
‘Why did he punish you?’ she asked.
His jaw tightened. Rain slid over his face, outlining hollowed cheeks. ‘Because I tried to escape.’
‘You were not mistreated. Why would you want to leave?’ Davin had saved his life. Was he not grateful for it?
‘A woman like you could never understand.’
Iseult stiffened at the accusation. What did he mean, a woman like her? Did he think she knew nothing of suffering? ‘You don’t know me at all.’
He rose to his feet slowly, watching her. Within his face she saw pain, but he made no complaint. ‘You shouldn’t be here, talking to me,’ he said. ‘Your betrothed is watching us.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
He took a step forwards, straining at his ropes. A fierceness tilted at his mouth. ‘But I have.’
Her imagination conjured up thoughts of murder or other wickedness. Although Kieran was lean, there was a ruthless air about him. As though he would do anything to survive.
‘Weren’t you ever warned about men like me?’ His rigid stare reached inside and took apart her nerves. The cool rain rolled down her skin, sliding beneath her bodice like a caress. She shivered, drawing her cloak around her. Not that it would protect her.
Kieran’s face grew distant. Then his mouth tightened. ‘Go back to your own master, Lady Iseult.’
Chapter Three
The second escape attempt failed. Kieran had made it beyond the gates this time, nearly to the forest before his body had collapsed. He didn’t know how long he’d lain there. Hours or minutes, it was all the same.
The fecund scent of rain and grass had surrounded him, while he welcomed the promise of death. He’d awakened to an animal licking his face. A wolfhound, nearly the size of a newborn mare, had whimpered and crooned to alert the others.
It was the middle of the night when they dragged him back to Deena’s hut. His skin was puckered from the rain, his body numb with cold.
Just as before, Deena treated the lash marks upon his back. She spread an oily salve upon the rope burns at his wrists. It stung, instead of soothing his irritated skin.
‘You shouldn’t bother,’ he said. ‘I’m not afraid to die.’
The healer studied him as she worked. Gently, she continued treating each of his wounds.
‘I had a son once,’ Deena said quietly, holding out a cup of bitter tea. Though he accepted it, he did not drink. Unless the brew would bring a final sleep, he had no interest in painkillers.
‘A strong young man, about your age.’ She smiled in memory, the fine lines crinkling around her eyes.
Kieran kept his gaze upon the simple wooden cup, as though he hadn’t heard her. But he was well aware of her words.
‘He was struck down by the evil spirits that cause sickness. On a spring night, such as this.’ She took the cup and lifted it to his mouth, touching his cheek as she did so.
But still he did not drink.
‘I did everything in my power to save him. I used every herb, prayed to every god in heaven or known to my ancestors. But it wasn’t enough.’
Her wrinkled hand pressed warmth into his skin, the touch of a mother. ‘For a long time, I blamed myself. I wanted to die, just as you do.’
Her other hand moved to his shoulder. ‘The pain doesn’t go away. You must endure it, one day at a time.’
‘I don’t want to take away the pain,’he said. Violence rimmed his words. ‘I want to remember. And I want every last one of them dead for what they did.’
‘I don’t know what you’ve suffered, lad. I won’t ask. But whatever evil befell you, it takes a greater courage to live than to die.’ She tilted the cup, easing the liquid into his mouth. At first, he nearly choked. She moved the cup away while he coughed.
‘Perhaps this is your penance. To be left alive.’ She pressed the cup to his mouth again.
This time he accepted the brew, drinking steadily. Deena took the cup away when it was empty and approached a small chest. From within it, she brought out a dagger and set it beside him.
‘I’m going to leave this here. And I’ll return to my own dwelling to finish my sleep, as most should do in the middle of the night.’ Deena’s voice hardened. ‘But if you truly want to die, I’ve given you the means.’
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.