Her Warrior Slave

by Michelle Willingham

  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 cu
rve 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 flattere
d 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.