The thought made her nerves constrict tighter, and Morren voiced a silent prayer for his welfare. Though Trahern was hardly more than a stranger to her, he’d saved her life. If he hadn’t been there to tend her, she’d have bled to death.
She only wished he hadn’t sent her sister for help. Jilleen was her only family, her only companionship. Without her, Morren had no one.
She ripped out the weeds from the roots, as though she could tear out her own frustrations and fears. She longed to return to the cashel, to see for herself the extent of the damage, but her body couldn’t endure it. Even now, she fought the dizziness that threatened her vision with bright spots.
She didn’t know how many hours had passed, but in time Brother Chrysoganus brought her a simple repast of bread and cheese. ‘I thought you might like something to eat.’
‘Thank you, Brother.’ She wiped her hands on her skirts, realising she was hungrier than she’d thought. ‘I hope you don’t mind I spent my time working.’
Chrysoganus leaned heavily upon his walking stick, in specting her efforts. ‘Not at all. I fear we’ve let that particular plot go fallow, but now that you’ve cleared it back, we’ll find a use for it. Thank you for your labour.’ He peered closer at the earth. ‘My hands can’t pull the weeds as easily as I’d like. Often the gardening falls to the younger brethren.’
Morren softened at his thanks, offering a tentative smile. Since she had no silver or possessions to offer the monastery in return for their hospitality, her skill was all she could give.
‘I’ve saved the weeds in a small pile over there,’ she said. ‘Cover them with leaves, and in the spring till the mixture into the soil, along with animal droppings,’ she advised. ‘Your garden will give you a good harvest.’
His craggy face formed an amused smile. ‘Will it, now?’
She rested her dirty palms on her lap and nodded. Broaching the subject she feared, she asked, ‘Have the fires in the cashel stopped?’
Chrysoganus’s smile faded, and he sat down upon a large, flat stone near the edge of the garden. ‘No, not yet. We don’t know who started them, but it must have happened early this morning.’
‘Not everyone died in the attack,’ Morren said slowly. ‘Why didn’t the survivors come here?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t be certain. We prepared the guest house, in anticipation of their arrival, but you and your companion have been the only folk we saw.’
How could it be that not a single person had taken sanctuary in the abbey? The fear she’d held back was starting to intensify. She’d wanted to believe that she could bring Jilleen back home, that they could find their place again and start over. But it was more likely that everyone was gone.
She looked into Brother Chrysoganus’s sympathetic brown eyes. ‘My travelling companion, Trahern MacEgan, went to look for my sister. He promised to return at sunset.’
‘I will see to it that accommodation is prepared for him.’ The monk inclined his head in a silent farewell as he took his leave.
After he’d left, Morren rose. Though her body ached and she still felt weak, she forced herself to walk to the tallest point of the abbey grounds. She needed to see her home, though it had been destroyed.
Each step was a struggle, and when at last she reached the topmost point of the hill in front of the abbey, she peered down and saw a rider approaching, a spear in his hand.
But it wasn’t Trahern.
Gunnar Dalrata knew he’d been followed. It was only out of sheer luck that he’d happened to see the grass ripple before his eyes, otherwise he’d not have seen the intruder watching them from outside the cashel.
He gripped his spear tighter and eyed his brother. Hoskuld didn’t seem to notice, but Gunnar remained a few paces behind. Glancing backwards, he spied the runner.
An Irishman. Had he been one of the Ó Reilly survivors?
Gunnar thought about alerting Hoskuld, but for what purpose? The Irishman had done nothing, except observe. He might have been looking for the girl they’d taken yesterday.
They crested the hill, and still the man pursued them. Was he planning to follow them to the settlement on foot? With another glance, Gunnar saw that the intruder had stopped at the top of the hill. Moments later, the man turned back.
Gunnar brought his horse alongside Hoskuld’s. ‘Someone was following us. I want to know why.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No. The man is on foot and unarmed from what I can tell. I want to question him.’
‘Bring him with you,’ Hoskuld suggested.
Gunnar’s expression turned grim. ‘I might.’ He quickened the pace of his mount, riding hard. He was about to overtake the Irishman when he happened to look up. The man was moving in the direction of St Michael’s Abbey, and in the distance, he saw the reason.
A woman stood at the top of the hill in front of the abbey. She was waiting for the man, and as Gunnar rode past, he saw the sudden fear and fury overtake the man’s expression.
It intrigued him. Perhaps the best way to get his answers was to await the man at the abbey. With his spear gripped in his hand, he rode up the hill to St Michael’s.
He saw the woman at closer range then. With fair hair and a quiet sort of beauty, her face would make any man want to fight for her. But when she caught sight of him, she fled.
Gunnar wheeled his horse back, keeping his spear aloft. When the Irishman arrived, he would be waiting.
Trahern tore up the hillside, his legs taking long strides. Anger gave him a speed he normally wouldn’t have. By God, he’d murder the Viking where he stood if he laid a hand on Morren.
It was the longest mile he’d ever run in his entire life. Fear punctuated his stride, along with guilt at having left her. Jesu, he shouldn’t have let Morren remain behind.
As he reached the top, he saw Morren disappear towards the chapel. Thank God, she’d had the good sense not to remain. He hardly felt his own exhaustion as he lunged towards the waiting rider. Energy roared through him as he seized the man’s spear and tossed it aside, dragging the Viking from his horse.
His enemy weighed nearly as much as he did, and Trahern grimaced when the man used his own strength to knock him to the ground.
‘I don’t like being followed,’ the man remarked, his voice heavy with a Norse accent. He twisted, wrestling Trahern to the side.
‘Neither do I.’ Trahern grunted, throwing the man off him. When the Viking stood up straight, he was startled to realise that they were the same height. Few men were as tall as himself, and even fewer possessed his strength.
The man’s gaze narrowed, and both of them saw the resemblance at the same time.
‘You’re one of us, aren’t you?’ the foreigner murmured. ‘I didn’t expect it.’
Trahern unsheathed his sword. ‘I’m not a damned Lochlannach, no.’
‘Then you haven’t looked at yourself recently.’ The man drew his own sword. ‘Why were you following me?’
‘Where is the girl?’ Trahern countered, swinging his weapon hard. The Norseman met his blow, blocking it.
A long blade came arcing towards his head, and Trahern sidestepped to avoid it, deflecting the slice with his own weapon.
‘I suppose you mean the one we found at the cashel yesterday,’ the man replied. ‘She’s at our settlement. But I don’t know if I’ll let you follow us there. Not with the kind of welcome you’ve given me.’ He lunged forward, his blade thrusting at Trahern’s gut in a physical challenge.
Trahern parried it, steadying his balance before he renewed the attack. He focused upon the fight, letting his training flow through him, meeting blow for blow. Sweat gleamed upon his skin, but he drove the man back.
When his blade nicked his opponent’s shoulder, satisfaction rippled through him. He’d been waiting half a year for this. He only wished he could fight against the other invaders, killing all of them.
He poured his rage, his grief, into the fight. It didn’t matter
to him that they were standing upon holy ground, that it was a sin against God to fight here. This man had slaughtered innocents, like Ciara. He’d violated women, and he deserved to die.
Behind the Viking, he spied Morren walking slowly. The folds of her gown draped over her thin body, and she gripped the edges of the borrowed cloak. The hood had slid down, revealing her golden hair. Fear and horror washed over her face.
It renewed his strength, and Trahern slashed a brutal blow toward his enemy’s blade, sending the weapon spinning until it landed in the grass. The man’s look of surprise changed to grim acceptance, when Trahern grasped him by the hair, fitting his sword to his enemy’s throat.
Staring hard at Morren, Trahern demanded, ‘Did this man dishonour you?’
Chapter Four
All the blood had left her face, and Morren knew without question that the Viking was going to die at Trahern’s hands. His life depended upon her answer.
‘No,’ she whispered. Then louder, ‘No, he wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t there that night.’ She kept her voice steady, hoping he would believe her.
Trahern’s iron gaze pierced her. ‘Don’t lie. He deserves to die for what he did.’ The blade remained tight at the Norseman’s throat.
‘I’m not lying.’ Though she didn’t want to draw closer, she forced herself to intervene. When she stood within an arm’s length of them, she pleaded, ‘Let him go, Trahern.’
It was clear he didn’t want to. She took another step closer, but he snarled, ‘Stay back.’
There was no mercy on his face, and she feared he wouldn’t listen to her words. She looked into his grey eyes, waiting. Letting him see that her words were true. The wildness in his demeanour was hanging on edge, as if he were fighting against the instinct to kill.
‘Let him go,’ she repeated.
Moments seemed to border on eternity. After a long pause, Trahern lowered his blade. Shoving the man away, he sheathed his weapon.
Morren breathed a little easier. The Viking wiped at the blood on his shoulder, and sent her a grateful look. ‘Thank you for my life, fair one.’
She recognised the interest behind his compliment. With dark grey eyes and blond hair, many women would call the Lochlannach handsome.
Not her. She had no interest in any man, especially not a Viking.
‘Who are you, and why were you at the cashel?’ she asked.
‘I am Gunnar Dalrata. And we were obeying the orders of our chief.’ He cast a glance at Trahern, wiping the blood at his shoulder. The wound didn’t appear deep, and the man hardly paid it any more heed than a scratch. ‘We were looking for more survivors, like the girl we found yesterday.’
‘Jilleen,’ Morren breathed, her heartbeat quickening. ‘Where did you take her?’
‘We took her to our longphort,’ Gunnar said. ‘You are welcome to join her. I’ll provide you with an escort.’
‘Morren will go nowhere with you.’ Trahern moved beside her, like a silent shield. His hand rested upon his sword hilt, poised to defend her. He looked as though he’d rather tear the Viking apart rather than release him.
‘The girl you found is my sister,’ Morren told Gunnar. ‘Please, let her go. She’s done nothing wrong.’
‘She is not a captive,’ Gunnar argued. ‘But we didn’t want her wandering out alone. We brought her with us when she asked for our healer.’ He studied her, his grey eyes narrowing with concern.
Morren held on to her waist, refusing to explain. Though the bleeding had nearly stopped, she didn’t feel like herself any more. It was as though she were hollowed out inside, with hardly anything left.
The day had taken its toll upon her, and though she didn’t want to feel any sort of weakness, she hadn’t recovered as quickly as she’d wanted to. And worse, Trahern seemed to sense it.
He kept his gaze fixed upon Gunnar, but his words were meant for her. ‘We’ll go to the settlement at dawn and bring back Jilleen.’
‘We should go with him now,’ Morren insisted.
‘You’re too weak to make the journey. Give it one more night.’ Trahern sent Gunner a dark look. ‘Unless you want me to go back with him.’
She hesitated. A part of her resisted the idea of leaving Jilleen for one more night, especially when she didn’t know whether or not her sister was all right. Then again, she hardly trusted Trahern not to get himself killed on account of his temper.
‘She’s unharmed,’ Gunnar said. ‘I promise you that.’
Morren stared at the Lochlannach, but he didn’t appear to be lying. His grey eyes held sincerity, and he added, ‘The rest of the Ó Reilly tribe sought sanctuary with us.’ He sent a distasteful look back towards the church.
The monks had begun returning from prayer, and the abbot quickened his pace at the sight of them. His face curdled with unspoken anger, and he reached for the long cross hanging around his neck as if warding off demons.
A grim expression formed upon his face when he reached them. Several of the other monks flanked him, as if in silent protection. Morren took a step back, distancing herself from the men.
‘I’ll return to the longphort and let them know to expect you,’ Gunnar said, whistling for his horse. He spoke not a word in greeting to the abbot, but gave a cold nod.
Before he could mount, Trahern interrupted. ‘I’ll be wanting my horse back.’
The edges of the Norseman’s mouth curved up. ‘Come and fetch him, then.’
A cloud drifted across the afternoon sun, shadowing the abbot’s face. Trahern inclined his head. ‘My apologies, Father.’
The abbot folded his arms. ‘To shed blood upon holy ground is a sin.’
The chastising tone in the priest’s voice seemed to stoke Trahern’s anger. Morren took another step away while the two men confronted each other.
Trahern’s height towered over the diminutive abbot. His grey eyes turned to granite. ‘I granted him mercy.’
The two men locked gazes, with the abbot making the sign of the cross. It seemed less like a blessing and more like an absolution, Morren thought.
‘There is still hatred in your heart.’
‘And there it will remain, until every last one of them is dead.’ When Trahern turned back to her, she saw the pain cloaked behind his anger.
It frightened her to see him so intent upon vengeance. She doubted if he cared anything at all for his soul.
He’s as lost as I am.
Trahern hardly spoke to Morren the rest of the night. God above, he didn’t know what was happening to him. It was as if he’d stepped outside himself, becoming a man who cared about nothing. He’d almost murdered the Norseman, simply because of the man’s heritage.
It didn’t seem to matter that Gunnar Dalrata hadn’t been there on the night of the attack. Everything about the man grated upon him, like sand in an open wound.
Innocent women had suffered and died on the night of the attack, due to men like Gunnar. The blood lust had seized him with the need to avenge, the need to kill. But Morren’s voice had broken through the madness, soothing the beast.
He moved to sit at the low wooden table at the centre of the room. The interior of the guest house was not large, but there were six pallets set up within the space, three on either side with the table to separate them.
The remains of their meal lay upon the table, and Trahern frowned at how little Morren had eaten. It was hardly enough to keep a child alive, much less a woman.
He’d wanted to pursue the Lochlannach tonight, but there was no chance Morren could endure the journey. If he ventured further than five miles, no doubt she would collapse.
She stepped quietly to a pallet on the far side, lying down with her back to him. Delicate and fragile, he didn’t miss the worry that burdened her. Despite her physical weakness, there was no doubt of her determination to reach her sister.
Trahern poured water into a wooden bowl and splashed it on his face. Water trickled down his stubbled cheeks, and he felt the prickle of hair forming on hi
s scalp and beard. Though most Irishmen prided themselves on their hair and beards, he wanted to strip it all away.
He didn’t want warmth or comfort—only the cold reminder of what he’d lost.
With his blade, he shaved off the hair, never minding the nicks upon his flesh. Without it, he appeared more fearsome. Different from the others, a man not to be trusted. If changing his physical appearance kept others away from him, so be it.
When it was done, he set the knife back on the table, a flicker of light gleaming off the blade. There were traces of his blood upon it, but he didn’t care.
He poured more water into the wooden bowl, using his palms to spill more of it over his head, the droplets washing away the blood. The remaining water in the bowl rippled, then fell still. In the reflection, he saw his angry features, the monster who lived for violence. A man who no longer cared if he lived or died.
A man who looked like one of the Vikings.
Trahern wanted to hurl the bowl across the room, because he wanted nothing to do with them. They were savage murderers, not men. He loathed the fact that their appearances were similar.
It shouldn’t have surprised him, for his great-uncle Tharand had been a Lochlannach, as well as his mother’s father. Even so, he’d never truly compared himself to the foreigners. But when he’d battled against Gunnar, for the first time he’d not looked down upon his enemy. They were the same height, the same build. It bothered him more than he cared to admit.
Jesu, how could he even consider bringing Morren into their settlement? She’d endured enough suffering. It was best to leave her here, where she wouldn’t have to face the men who had harmed her.
But then he’d never know who the raiders were. Without her, he couldn’t identify them. Trahern gritted his teeth, fingering his dagger before sheathing the blade. There was no choice but to bring her.
He risked a glance at her sleeping form on the opposite side of the guest house. Like a ghostly spirit, Morren appeared caught between the worlds of the living and the dead. Though she claimed she wanted to live, to take care of her sister, after the horror she had endured he wondered if she would ever find contentment in her life.
Surrender to an Irish Warrior Page 4