Her Warrior Slave

by Michelle Willingham

  Ugly suspicions darkened in his mind. Davin recalled a conversation he wasn’t supposed to overhear, between his mother and father last night. Neasa had claimed she’d seen Iseult sneaking into Kieran’s hut.

  Davin had dismissed it, for his mother’s animosity towards his bride was clear. It was only Neasa’s way of stirring up trouble. Iseult had hardly looked at Kieran. She seemed to avoid him at every moment. Not only that, but he’d learned that the woodcarver had already left.

  Perhaps she’d had some bad news regarding her son. ‘Is this about Aidan?’

  ‘No. It’s something else.’ She took his hand in hers and led him towards the gates of the ringfort. He accompanied her, noting how cold her fingers were. The moon rose above the ringfort, stark and white against the darkened sky. Torches flickered in the wind.

  When they reached the hillside, she led him down until they were completely alone. She sat upon the grassy knoll, tucking her bare feet beneath her skirts.

  ‘You’re unhappy,’ he said, sitting beside her. ‘I can see it in your face.’ He’d hoped she would relax and deny it. Instead, she lowered her gaze.

  The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach worsened. Had she ever been happy here? Always leaving the ringfort in search of her son, never content. And even when he showed her affection, she seemed uneasy. His consternation increased while he wondered what he could say to make her feel better.

  ‘It’s nothing you’ve done. You’ve been the kindest man to me.’ She let go of his hand, drawing her knees up. In the moonlight, her profile was pale, uncertain. ‘But I can’t marry you.’

  Like an axe, her words severed his intended response. It was the last thing he’d expected. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You deserve a better wife than I can be to you. It would be wrong.’

  Panic overrode him. He sensed their betrothal crumbling, and he struggled to hold the pieces together. ‘You’re the only wife I want.’ He drew his hand around her shoulders, but Iseult did not respond. The wall of ice had returned, and he didn’t know what to do.

  A heaviness seemed to encircle his heart as he pulled his hand away. ‘What has happened? Only yestereve, you were still planning to wed me at Bealtaine.’

  ‘I think I’ve always known it was wrong,’ she whispered. ‘I tried to convince myself that I could love you. You were everything a husband should be, everything I thought I wanted.’ Even as she spoke the words, she would not look at him.

  His skin drew taut, his nerves growing more suspicious. ‘But something made you change your mind.’ He ventured a guess. ‘It’s Kieran, isn’t it?’

  He’d expected her to laugh or deny it. Instead, her face transformed into guilt. Though she tried to veil it, Davin could see the fear in her eyes. And frightened she should be, for his rage boiled with the need for violence against the slave. His mother had been right.

  His knuckles curled into fists, his throat tight with anger. How could she betray him like this? He’d given her his full trust, never believing she would behave dishonourably. ‘You’re in love with him.’

  ‘He’s gone, Davin.’ A tear rolled down her cheek. ‘Whatever he chooses to do with his life has nothing to do with us.’

  Disgust filled him at the sight of her tears. ‘He seduced you, didn’t he? All the time when he was carving your likeness.’ They had planned this together. She’d waited until the slave had gone before telling him.

  Iseult turned scarlet and rose to her feet. ‘You’re wrong. Never did I share his bed, and you needn’t treat me like a woman who would lie with any man.’

  ‘You lay with Murtagh and bore his child.’

  ‘That was years ago. It has nothing to do with right now.’

  ‘Never once have you shared my bed,’ he pointed out. ‘Though we were betrothed.’

  ‘Did you think it was your right?’ She crossed her arms, her eyes sparking with fury.

  ‘It was my right more than his.’ Davin stood, grasping her firmly by the waist. She struggled, but he held her fast. He wanted her to fear him, wanted her to feel as helpless as she made him feel right now. ‘You were promised to me long before you met him.’

  ‘Kieran is no longer a threat to you. I don’t know where he’s gone, and it doesn’t matter. I will return home to my family.’

  ‘If he dares show his face to me again, I will kill him.’ He meant it. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to drive his blade into Kieran’s chest. It didn’t matter if they had never been lovers. He could see that Iseult had given the slave her heart. And she didn’t love him.

  ‘I’ll send the chest back,’ she said, her voice dull. ‘You can give it to the woman you marry.’

  He released her. ‘That woman was supposed to be you.’

  ‘I won’t marry you,’ she said quietly. ‘It was wrong of me to think I could.’

  ‘You never gave us a chance.’ Her words carved invisible wounds into his stomach. ‘You gave more of yourself to Murtagh and that…slave than you ever did to me.’

  ‘Don’t lower yourself, Davin.’ She stepped away from him. ‘Find another woman and forget about me.’

  ‘I’m still in love with you. And I won’t let you go.’

  She looked away. ‘One day you’ll know I’m letting you go because I care for you. Wedding you would be a mistake for both of us.’

  ‘And what of Kieran?’ He didn’t for a moment believe that she was going home. Icy jealousy made him want to tear the man apart.

  She raised a tear-stained face to him, fully meeting his eyes. ‘There is no future for me with Kieran. We both know it.’

  The loss of her cut into him so deeply, he felt the desperate need to ask her again. Though he loathed the thought of begging, he couldn’t stand by and watch her go. He still loved her. Still needed her. ‘I would wait for you, Iseult.’

  She shook her head sadly and reached out to touch his cheek. ‘Don’t.’

  The crack of a whip struck through the morning stillness. Kieran remained hidden in the crowd, trying to keep his mind detached from the brutality of the slave market. Only this past winter, he had stood naked before a crowd such as this one. He’d fought to free himself, only to receive the lash upon his spine.

  His hand went to his pouch to where the frail sheet of parchment rested, the proof of his freedom. No doubt Iseult would have told Davin by now of her decision. Several weeks had passed since Bealtaine.

  When he looked upon the faces of the slaves, he thought of his earlier vow. Thirteen weeks, he’d sworn to endure as penance. But he’d been unable to keep the promise. With each day he’d remained at Lismanagh, his desire for Iseult increased. Giving her up was worse than enduring any form of slavery.

  He wouldn’t let himself dwell upon the vision of her face, nor her soft sighs of pleasure when he’d touched her. He had the memory of her. It would have to be enough.

  Kieran dragged his attention back to the slave auction, never taking his hand off the dagger. Women and men were sold off one by one, fear and uncertainty in their faces. Children wept when they were pulled away from their mothers. His gut twisted at the sight of a young adolescent boy, a dark-haired lad the same age as Egan. All were too old to be Iseult’s son.

  His hands shook, curling over the cold metal of his weapon. The scars upon his back, though long healed, seemed to ache with memory. No one should have to suffer this way, nor lose their freedom. Though he offered a prayer for them, he hadn’t a coin to his name, nothing to save any of the slaves from their fate.

  He swore a silent vow, never to keep a slave of his own. Not so long as he breathed.

  Almost an hour passed until the remaining slaves were sold. The Norse slave trader Bodvar handled the auction, calling out the merits of each man, woman and child. Kieran waited until the crowd dispersed, and Bodvar finished counting his silver. The trader had long reddish hair that hung to his waist, tied back with a thong. A thick curling beard rested upon his chest, and his narrow eyes focused upon the coins.


  Finally, Kieran stepped forward. When his shadow darkened Bodvar’s line of sight, the Norseman looked up. A thin smile spread over his face.

  ‘I always thought you’d escape, Kieran Ó Brannon. None of the others had your strength.’

  ‘I am a free man now,’ he replied, withdrawing the parchment from his pouch as proof.

  Bodvar shrugged and crossed his arms. ‘You’re too late to purchase a slave of your own. But if you’ve silver, I might be persuaded to find a woman for you among my own slaves.’

  Kieran ignored the remark. ‘I’m looking for a young boy, two years of age. Stolen from his mother last summer. He has black hair, and his mother named him Aidan.’

  The Norseman finished tying off his purse of silver and bound it to his waist. ‘Haven’t seen him.’

  ‘You see hundreds of boys like him everywhere you travel. This one came not far from here. From the MacFergus clan.’

  Bodvar stood. ‘If he was taken from his own clan, it was either raiders or one of their own kin. Someone who needed silver, who wanted to be rid of the boy.’

  Kieran considered the possibility, along with the difficulties it posed. ‘I intend to find him.’

  Bodvar laughed. ‘You’ll never find him, and well you know it.’

  Kieran did not respond. To Bodvar, a child was nothing more than a nuisance and hardly worth a profit. There was nothing more to gain by speaking to him. But Iseult’s family was another matter. There might be answers within her own clan.

  He quelled the rising hope of seeing her again. Iseult had made her choices, and they had nothing to do with him. Likely she had wed Davin after all. He’d told Iseult to keep her betrothal, for at least she would be safe. But the thought of Davin caressing her bare skin made him clench his dagger as though it were a man’s throat.

  He continued walking east, though his feet ached from the journey. When it grew too dark to go any further, he built a fire on the lee side of a hill and warmed himself. As he leaned back to sleep, Iseult’s face haunted him once more. He wanted to see her. He itched to touch her skin, to thread his hands through the silk of her hair.

  Would that he could suppress the memories. Iseult MacFergus could never belong to him, not with a life such as this.

  She had urged him to return home, to seek his family once more. Never. They would not forgive him for what had happened to Egan. How could they, when he couldn’t forgive himself?

  No, he had no place where he belonged. He would keep his promise to Iseult and find her son.

  And after that, it didn’t matter where he went.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A furious rain pounded down from the skies. Iseult clung to her mare, praying that she was on the right path home. Dark clouds shrouded the countryside, making it difficult to see past the mist. She kept her mount along the path of the river, both for the water source and to keep herself from becoming lost.

  Her life was packed away in two bundles. She’d left behind her dower chest and everything Davin had given her. For the past three days she’d travelled alone. Beneath her brat, she shivered.

  She’d slipped away in the early morning, telling only Deena of her intent to leave. She was afraid Davin wouldn’t let her go, otherwise.

  Her body ached from the effort of holding onto the mare. Though it was nearing sunset, she was almost home. She clung to the thought, craving the familiarity of her family’s dwelling. The land shifted to the meadows she knew, the thatched wattle and daub huts of friends. And in the distance stood the gates of their ringfort.

  Iseult leaned her head down upon the horse’s mane and wept. Exhaustion permeated her body, tempting her with the promise of sleep. She reached inside her cloak to touch the wooden figure of her son, as if she could somehow be nearer to Kieran.

  Would he truly carry out his promise to find Aidan? Though she wanted to believe it, she was afraid to let herself hope. As she stared out at the desolate landscape, she prayed for both of them.

  With a signal to the mare, she continued onward. On the outskirts of the ringfort stood the blacksmith’s hut, belonging to her father. Though it was made of stone, he kept the work space open to the elements to avoid the dangers of fire. Due to the rain, she suspected he would be staying inside their home this day.

  No one guarded the gates, and Iseult smelled the musty aroma of peat burning as she drew near. She dismounted and led the horse inside the ringfort. Her wet gown clung to her skin, causing her to shiver with cold. Although the rain had slowed, she longed to be inside, warming herself before a fire.

  She brought the mare to her family’s dwelling, a circular stone hut with a thatched roof. After loosening the ties that bound her belongings, she led the animal to a sheltered lean-to. She rubbed the mare down, then gave her grain and water.

  Iseult hesitated before knocking upon the door, unsure of what her parents would say. But when the door opened, her father’s face broke into a smile. His hair had grown thinner, and he’d cut it short to his shoulders. In the months since she’d seen him last, the fair strands had faded almost to grey. Rory pulled her into a bone-crushing hug, laughing heartily.

  ‘Iseult, a iníon, it’s good to see you.’ He brought her inside, and she saw her mother sitting by the fire, her needle moving through a woollen garment. Unlike Da, her mother did not get up to embrace her. Instead, Caitleen’s mouth drew into a disapproving line, and she continued sewing.

  ‘We received your message about delaying the wedding,’ Rory said, guiding her to sit down. He poured her a cup of mead, which Iseult accepted gratefully. ‘I can’t say as I understand why, but that’s for the two of you to decide, I suppose. And where is Davin? Seeing to the horses?’

  ‘He is still at Lismanagh, I expect.’ Her glance flickered towards Caitleen, who still had not voiced a single word of welcome.

  ‘He let you come alone?’ Rory was aghast at her admission. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  Iseult faltered a moment, but managed to gather her thoughts together. She had hoped for more time before telling them the truth. Best to get it over with, she supposed. ‘I decided not to marry him, Da,’ she admitted quietly. ‘I would not have made him a good wife.’

  Her mother’s hands stopped moving, her eyes glittering with anger. ‘I knew you were too foolish to know a strong match when we found it for you. A more ungrateful girl I’ve never met.’

  ‘Caitleen—’ her father warned.

  ‘Well, she is. Davin Ó Falvey was the best marriage we could have arranged for her, and she turned him away.’ Caitleen dropped her mending. ‘If she wants to go and marry a farmer, so be it. I won’t be responsible for her future any more.’

  ‘Iseult may choose whatever man she wishes,’ Rory argued. ‘She does not need a chieftain for a husband.’

  Caitleen shook her head, returning her attention to her sewing. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  Iseult kept her spine straight, not letting her mother see how much the words hurt. ‘May I stay with you for a time, Da?’ she asked quietly.

  Rory put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Of course. You are always welcome here.’ But his eyes turned bitter when he glanced at his wife.

  Though Caitleen might have given birth to her, Iseult had never been close to her mother. She didn’t understand why her father remained married to the woman. Caitleen had never forgiven him for being content as a blacksmith, her ambitions ever rising.

  ‘Have you a léine I could borrow?’ she asked her mother quietly. All of her clothing was soaked from the hard rain and would take time to dry.

  Wordlessly, her mother opened a trunk and handed her a gown. Iseult thanked her and moved behind a small partition, stripping off her clothing. When she stood naked, her mind recalled Kieran’s touch upon her body. She regretted none of it. She wished desperately to feel his arms around her, to smell the faint hint of wood that surrounded him. To lie in his arms and to love him.

  Saint Brigid, it was lonely without him. She pulled t
he dry léine over her body, but the clothing did little to make her feel better. From her cloak, she withdrew the wooden carving, for at least she had something that had been close to Kieran. She ran the edge of her thumb over the carved lines, before at last putting it away.

  When she joined her father by the fire, Rory handed her a bowl of mutton stew. She picked at the food, though she hadn’t eaten since this morn.

  ‘Have you learned anything about Aidan?’ she asked.

  Her father shook his head. ‘I wish I had better news for you, a stór. But no one has seen or heard anything about your son.’

  ‘Could he have been taken into slavery?’ she asked, staring hard at the fire. Her eyes remained dry, her feelings drawn tight by the barest sense of control.

  ‘I don’t believe so. Usually only the Norsemen capture slaves. We’ve seen none of the foreigners nearby.’

  He didn’t know. Iseult set her bowl down, her blood racing at the thought of the Lochlannachs. If the raiders had anything to do with Aidan’s disappearance, she had to find them.

  ‘The raiders landed on the far side of the bay only weeks ago,’ she admitted. ‘They attacked Lismanagh.’

  ‘Was anyone hurt?’ Rory asked. He took the bowl from her, worry creasing his face.

  ‘We lost some of the tribesmen. Several were…wounded.’ The blade of memory slashed her again as she thought of Kieran.

  She swallowed hard, closing off her mind from the bitterness. ‘I should search again,’ she said. ‘You’ve not seen the Lochlannachs this far inland?’

  ‘No.’

  Her mother set her mending aside and poured herself a cup of mead. ‘Let him go, Iseult. It’s been a year. You should forget about Aidan.’

  Such a choking rage filled her, she could barely speak. Never would she consider such a thing. ‘He is of my flesh and blood,’ Iseult argued. ‘I cannot forget about him. And I will find out what happened and whether or not he lives.’

  Her mother sighed. ‘You’ll never marry, then. No man of worth would claim the boy, even if you did find him.’