‘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.
With the wood, he could transform the fibres into something almost alive. Like a god, he shaped and moulded his creations. It wasn’t right that he was interested in the work, even if it did involve a beautiful woman.
In the distance, a purple and rose-tinged sunrise emerged from the east. Kieran moved towards an animal trough, dipping his hands in the water and splashing it over his face. Though Davin had kept his word, removing the guards from his doorway, he sensed the others watching him.
One took a few steps forward. With a shaved head and a long red beard, the man had an arrogant swagger to him. ‘You, there. Slave,’ he called. ‘Bring us some water.’ The man smirked at his companion, and Kieran’s knuckles curled over the trough.
In the past, no man would have dared to command him. But these tribesmen expected him to jump to their orders, like a dog. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the men and sent them a warning look.
He wasn’t in the habit of obedience.
This is your penance, his mind insisted. Do as they command.
No. These men weren’t his master. They wanted to exert their power over him, demeaning him. Although he would accept whatever tasks Davin gave, he wouldn’t let these men gain the upper hand.
Against his better judgement, Kieran turned his back and returned to his hut. No doubt they would run off to Davin and complain. There would be repercussions, but he didn’t care. He might choose to endure the slavery for a time, but it didn’t mean he would bow down before every man.
He sat down with the door open, allowing the natural light inside. The carving tools rested on the table wrapped in leather, just where he’d laid them. His sketches of Iseult, along with the yew, awaited his attention.
He uncovered the carving tools from the protective leather. His thumb brushed the edge of a knife, judging its sharpness.
The red-bearded man shadowed his doorway, fists clenched. ‘I ordered you to bring me water, slave.’
‘Did you?’ Kieran anticipated the rush of a fight and his hand curved over the hilt of a blade. His own height rivalled the other man’s, making him an equal opponent. ‘I’m not your slave, am I?’
‘Davin will hear of your disobedience,’ the man asserted. ‘And I’ve a mind to punish you for it.’
Just try it.
Kieran lifted his knife, his body poised in a defensive position. He might have lost his former strength, but he knew how to wield a blade. ‘Will you, now?’ Slicing the weapon through the air, he invited, ‘Well, then, let’s see it.’
A growl emitted from the man’s throat, and he charged Kieran, aiming for his wrist. Kieran turned sideways, cutting a thin slash across the man’s forearm. Nothing serious, but an insult nevertheless.
Energy pumped through him, and he revelled in the chance to use his former skills. Long ago, he’d been one of the best fighters in their tribe. His muscles remembered how to move, though his body cried out with the pain of it. His opponent picked up the iron cauldron, sloshing its contents at him.
Kieran dodged the splash of vegetables and meat, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Hungry, are you?’ He kicked the slab of overcooked mutton towards the man. ‘Take what you’d like and get out.’
‘I’ll make you eat the dirt, first.’ Before Kieran could move, the bearded man seized his wrist and struck the raw wounds on Kieran’s back. Pain shot through him, and Kieran was forced to drop the knife. He aimed a kick at the man’s groin, twisting to avoid a punch.
‘Enough of this,’ a man’s voice interrupted. Davin strode into the hut, stepping between them. To the red-bearded man, he ordered, ‘Cearul, release him.’
Sullen and grim, the man obeyed. Kieran rubbed his wrist, angry that Davin had interfered. He could have finished the fight.
‘He refused our orders, Davin,’ Cearul claimed. ‘He was supposed to bring us water.’
‘I have set Kieran a more important task,’ Davin said. ‘When he has finished with that, then perhaps he can attend to other needs. For now, I would suggest you return to your own duties. The planting is not yet finished, I believe.’
Cearul reddened, and though he glared at Kieran, he nodded. A moment later, he departed.
‘I
want to see the work you completed last night,’ Davin said. All traces of amicability were gone.
‘You didn’t have to stop the fight.’
‘I didn’t want you killing any of my men. It might have been a fight to you, but not to them.’ Davin crossed his arms, pinning him with a dark glance.
Kieran forced himself to let it go. ‘My drawings are there.’ He pointed to the board he’d left on the table. ‘I’ll begin working on the carving this evening.’
Davin lifted the board, revealing nothing of what he thought. ‘I’ll send her to you again tonight. And I want to see the completed carving within a sennight.’
Kieran supposed it could be done, if he worked every spare minute upon it. But the level of detail he wanted would require painstaking work. He needed more subtle tools than these, gouges with narrow ridges and steeper angles.
‘A fortnight would be more reasonable,’ he bargained. ‘And these tools are not of the best quality.’
‘A sennight,’ Davin repeated. ‘If you are a competent woodcarver, you’ll manage even without the tools.’ He returned to the doorway. ‘I’ll order the others to leave you alone, but I’d advise you not to leave the hut without an escort. And if I find that you insult or endanger Iseult in any way, you’ll answer to me for it.’ He departed, leaving the door open.
Davin’s warning was not an idle threat. Kieran suspected the man would have no qualms about killing him, were Iseult threatened. He could respect a man for protecting his betrothed. He’d have done the same once, had anyone bothered Branna.
At the thought of her name, his gut soured. With auburn hair and laughing dark eyes, he well remembered the feel of holding her in his arms. And now Branna embraced her new husband, the way she had once welcomed him.
He forced the vision away and stared down at the drawing he’d done last night. He’d caught Iseult thinking of someone, her face wistful and filled with longing. He’d also drawn her with flashing anger, her eyes sparking hatred. She intrigued him, with her beauty and spirit.
He cleaned up the fallen meat and vegetables, wondering why Iseult had troubled to make a meal for him. No one had done anything like that in a long while. She didn’t like him; he could see it in her eyes.
Kieran picked up the yew and began tracing the outline of her face upon the wood. Within moments, he lost himself in the work, cutting out the background with an iron gouge. The scent of freshly cut wood mingled with the morning air, and he took comfort from it. The tools cut into the creamy sapwood, etching out details.
When at last he looked up, it was mid-morning. He saw that someone had left a bag of supplies just outside the door. He found bread inside and tore off a piece, enjoying the taste of the fresh grain.
Near the ringfort entrance, he saw Iseult leading a mare inside. Her face was pale, and her cheeks were wet as though she’d been weeping. Unbidden came the urge to find out what had happened.
It’s none of your affair, his conscience warned. But for a woman about to marry, he’d never seen anyone look so unhappy.
Iseult pounded a mass of clay, water spattering all over the brown léine she wore. She didn’t care. She released tears, digging her fingers into the clay as though she could strangle the unknown men who had taken her son.
‘I must speak with you.’
She lifted her gaze and saw Davin standing before her. His sober expression promised nothing but grim news. ‘What is it?’
‘More raids. Father sent men to scout out what was happening. It may be the Norsemen again.’
Iseult left the fallen mass of clay and reached for a cloth to dry her hands. She supposed she should be frightened, but the stories of the Lochlannachs she’d heard seemed more like exaggerated myths, stretched to make a good tale. ‘How do you know it’s them?’
‘We know their ships,’ he reminded her. ‘And for that reason, I don’t want you leaving the ringfort again. Not until we know what’s happening.’
Stay here? Iseult dismissed the idea. After her failed search today, she would have to journey further. ‘I’m going to start searching inland,’ she said. ‘No one has seen Aidan on the peninsula, and it’s time to try elsewhere.’
She saw no danger in travelling away from the coast. It might take a few days, but she could bring supplies and speak to the different tribes.
Davin shook his head. ‘Only after we’ve determined it’s safe. Wait a few weeks longer, and I’ll go with you. After our wedding,’ he promised.
Iseult shook her head in denial. ‘It’s been almost a year, Davin. If I wait too long, I won’t know Aidan any more. Even now, I can hardly remember his face.’ The familiar pain of loss was a constant ache, mingled with her own guilt for not protecting him well enough.
‘I know you’ll never forget him,’ Davin said, stroking her hair. ‘But perhaps it’s time to let this go.’
‘You’re asking me to abandon my son.’ The thought was like a blade to her wrists. How could he even think of it?
‘It’s hurting you, and I don’t want to see your pain any more.’ His arms moved around her waist, his hands caressing her spine.
She didn’t answer him, and he sighed, releasing her. ‘One of the ringforts was attacked, near the coast. We need to ensure that the raiders don’t come near us.’
‘As you say,’ she murmured, her voice unable to conceal her frustration.
He touched her cheek. ‘Just a few more weeks, Iseult. If you’re not ready to give up, we’ll continue your search.’
Behind his promise, she sensed his reluctance. Though he would never say it, this was another man’s child.
‘Until later, then.’ The lie fell easily from her mouth, but inwardly she intended to keep searching. She’d wait until Davin left and travel east, closer to Trá Li. Though she didn’t like the idea of going alone, no one else would help her. They, like Davin, believed she should give up.
‘Come and dine with my family tonight,’ Davin urged.
Iseult dreaded the idea of sharing a meal at the chieftain’s table. She avoided it whenever possible, but she could not insult them by refusing.
‘You should go and see Kieran now,’ Davin said, kissing her. ‘Make sure he’s begun the carving of you.’
‘How do you know he has any skill at all? I’ve yet to see him lift a blade to wood.’ She disliked being the subject of such scrutiny, especially from the slave. He was unpredictable, fierce, and not at all humble.
‘You should see this.’ Davin reached into a fold of his cloak and withdrew a carved wooden figure of a boy. Iseult held it in her palm, struck by the intricate facial expression. The carved boy held the innocent wonder of early adolescence, coupled with a trace of mischief. When she ran her thumb over the piece, she understood what Davin had seen in it. This was a carving created by a master. ‘Was this his brother?’ she asked.
‘I suspect it might be. He wants it back, and I have promised it to him, in exchange for your likeness. If he completes the dower chest to my satisfaction, I will grant him his freedom.’
She handed the carving back to him. How could a man with such hatred in him create a work of beauty like this? Lost in thought, she was barely aware of Davin’s departure.
An hour later, she stood before the woodcarver’s hut.
Kieran sensed Iseult’s presence before he looked up from his work. The light floral fragrance surrounded her, like a breath of spring. It made him edgy, being around this woman.
At least she was betrothed to his master and was completely beyond reach. He could ignore the unwelcome awareness because of it.
‘Davin asked me to come and see that you’ve begun the carving,’ she began, stepping across the threshold without waiting for an invitation.
Of course, she had that right. He was a slave, and she would become his mistress soon enough after she wed Davin. His skin prickled at the invasion of his privacy. He preferred working alone.
He set down the gouge and flicked a glance at her. By the Almighty, she was an
exquisite creature. Her light golden hair held the faintest touch of fire. It hung down to her waist, pulled back from her face with a single comb. A smudge of clay clung to her cheek, while upon her wrists he saw the faint traces of mud that she’d tried to scrub away.
In his mind, he envisaged her slender fingers twining the clay into coiled ropes. The vision conjured up an unexpected flush of heat, as he imagined her fingers moving over a man’s skin. He didn’t know where the thought had come from, but his body reacted to her nearness.
‘I’ve begun the work, yes.’ He covered the carving with a cloth, stretching his hands. The initial outline was good, but he hadn’t captured her spirit yet. ‘Was that all you wanted?’
Maybe she would leave. But no. She sat down upon one of the tree stumps. Crossing her wrists over one knee, she added, ‘I don’t like being here. But I suppose you’ll need to finish your drawings.’
The honesty did not bother him. He preferred a forthright conversation and a woman who spoke her mind. ‘I can’t say as I like being here either.’
She stared at him, as if questioning whether he was trying to be funny. Then she dismissed it, asking, ‘Did you remember to eat? Or was that too much of an inconvenience?’
‘I have the supplies Davin sent.’ They were of the lowest quality, the bread heavy and coarse. Nevertheless, he’d eaten the food in solitude.
Picking up the board he’d used the other day, he began sketching her eyes. A deep sea blue, they held such sadness. Haunted, they were. ‘I saw you weeping this morn.’
‘It’s none of your affair.’
True enough. Though women cried often, it wasn’t something he liked to see. His sisters often used it to their advantage, weeping whenever they wanted something. They’d known he would relent to their demands.
Seeing Iseult weep was another matter. He sensed that her grief went beyond anything Davin could fix. Or perhaps it was because of Davin.
‘We all have our secrets,’ he answered in turn. ‘Keep yours, if you will.’
Her Warrior Slave Page 4