by Sandi Layne
The command rang again, the terse word bouncing off stone walls. Cowan rose slowly to his feet. If he were to leave the encircling walls, he might find a way to escape to his father and then he would bring back a fighting force to overwhelm these vikingr, as they were called in the Aquitaine.
“Cowan!” Martin asked, slapping his bare leg with the back of his uninjured hand. “What are you about?”
“Survival,” Cowan rasped, “and escape if I can. I’ll see you freed, my friend. Have faith and remember Christ in all your dealings with these men. He himself accepted torture at the hands of the Romans and did not retaliate.”
With that needed caution and a most direct glare at the newly impetuous Frankish monk, Cowan wiped the dust from his tunic and approached Agnarr with measured steps. “Yes?” Wait, what was the word he had heard for an affirmative? “Ja?”
Agnarr’s dark blond brows twitched in surprise before a slow smile slanted his mouth. Using words that made no sense to the man of Éire, the invader gestured that he, Cowan, should accompany him.
“Wait!” Cowan said with what he hoped was a firm and respectful tone. “What about my friend?” He used gestures and hoped to convey that he wished Martin to be treated and cared for.
The vikingr made a noncommittal sort of sound and Cowan had to let it stand; he had tried. He muttered a prayer as he allowed himself to be bound by the wrists. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for You are with me.
“Here! Bring that ladder here!” Devin shouted, gesturing firmly to the youngsters who were helping in the defense of the rath. “And you, there! Yes, you! Fetch the healer!”
Charis heard her husband and hurriedly gathered what supplies she could carry, not knowing what the man needed. Had he been hurt? So close to a battle? Foolish man, gouging his arm with an axe, no doubt trying to fortify their rath.
Tension thrumming through her, she was already at the door to their dwelling when the young, black-haired boy appeared at the door. “Healer! Devin wants you!”
“Is he hurt?” she snapped.
The youth stopped short, as if he had run into a wall. “Hurt? No, Healer. He just said he wanted you.”
Charis felt the pressure inside her cease at once, even though she knew the Northmen were coming. The sails had been seen, but the invaders had gone to the monastery first—more luck to the warriors here. Charis believed in luck, yes. Not the gods and goddesses who had let her and her people down over the past long times, but luck—luck they couldn’t live without.
Still with her herbals and bandaging in the numerous pouches and pockets she fashioned in her léine, Charis ran past the young messenger and found Devin by his voice. When his gaze lit on her, she could see his demeanor soften a bit.
“Charis, I want you to go to the tunnels.”
She blanched, then her face hardened. “No, I won’t go into hiding. I will be here with you and Devlin, where I can help!”
Her answer turned her husband into the stern warrior-chieftain who struck fear into the hearts of rival chieftains and the nearby, land-hungry kings. His voice dropped to a low register and he all but dragged her behind the nearest haystack. “I can’t fight if I’m worried about you. Devlin can’t either. You know that. We have to concentrate!”
Charis set her jaw and glared at the man. “I will not go below! The passages are for the old and the children. We need to be getting them below; that is what we need to do. They can hide there until the Northmen have been driven off.”
He threw his hands up in the air with a roar before grabbing her by both shoulders and shaking her once. “Charis! Lass! Listen to me! Haven’t you heard what they do to women? I’ll not have them do that to you!”
She shuddered. It wasn’t so much the thought of captivity that bothered her, but being violated was degrading, humiliating. Although, she reminded herself, she was not without resources. Bringing herself—body and mind—under control, she reached up to stroke her husband’s tense, hard hand with her own.
“Devin, I’ll not have you worrying about me. I can take care of myself.” Had he forgotten that healers had knowledge beyond pulling teeth and patching wounds?
Devin shook his head once. “I know you can, lass. I know it. But . . . I cannot allow the distraction. That will kill me.”
“That’s not fair!” she protested, shaking off his hands and stepping away.
His face smoothed to impassivity, but she could see the fear in his eyes and it made her hurt inside. She thought of the tunnels, stone-lined passages underground that they had constructed over the past three years for just such an occasion. There were stores there. Travel food, medicinals, blankets—though who knew what condition they were in—and places for the children and aged to hide.
It wasn’t fair, though, that an able-bodied woman such as herself should hide, too. She resolved not to do so, but not tell her husband she’d be helping as best she could aboveground. To drain the fear from his face and shoulders, she slowly nodded her head.
“I’ll go,” she said, not wanting to lie to her husband, but refusing to give in. “But if you or Devlin get yourself killed, I’ll not want to be seeing your shades at my door!” Holding no faith or beliefs near to her heart, Charis nevertheless believed in ghosts. Spirits of dead people could and would extract revenge on those deemed responsible for their demise.
Devin made a small show of laughing off her fear. “Not to worry, lass. We’ll be pulling you out from underground as soon as we get rid of the Northmen.”
And what if you’re the men who are taken away?
Not if she could help it, Charis decided, shaking her apron and turning abruptly from Devin.
“Come!” she called loudly to the children. They were everywhere, having been drawn by sheer curiosity to where the healer and chieftain were arguing. Their elders were busy; where else would the children go? They surrounded Charis in the space of a few breaths. Youth over-young for battle, toddlers and infants clung to each other, eyes wide with fear.
“You are brave, my children,” Charis assured them with a nod. She took the youngest in reach into her arms and nuzzled downy black curls. The gesture set off several sniffles among the pale faces and tousled heads. “You know what to do?”
Aislinn, a girl of ten summers, nodded. “We go to the tunnels, Healer, until you or the others come for us.”
“Isea, my girl. You do.”
Thinking it would be a simple matter to just lead them to the tunnel’s entrance at the blacksmith’s other fire pit, she beckoned to them and started walking, still carrying the infant in her arms. But what had been a rehearsed, orderly sequence of events turned into noisy chaos as parents came to hug their little ones, and children darted away, bawling, to beg to stay with Ma or Da.
Charis’s heart twisted inside her breast, but there was no help for it; the children had to be hidden, for their safety and that of their families. With hidden exasperation, she called them, gestured, and even dashed off over muddy, sticky ground to gather them back again.
“Come! Your safety is important! Your parents cannot concentrate if you’re not safe!” She darted a fierce look at Devlin, who had helped with a couple of recalcitrant boys. He met her glance with a lifted brow, but that was all. Finally the children were in order, paired with a sibling, cousin, or friend, and they straggled in a rough line toward the smith’s fire.
Once there, Charis gave the curly-haired boy into Aislinn’s care. She was a leader among the children, showing promise as a warrior and a healer both, even at her age. “You go first to reassure the little ones,” Charis said gently.
The blue-eyed girl’s lips were pinched as she tossed a longing look over her shoulder to where her brothers were arming themselves. After a silent moment, she nodded. “I will go.” To those behind her, she offered a thin excuse for a smile. “Come! Those Northmen are too stupid to find us here!”
Some of the older ones tried to smile bravely as they followed Ai
slinn into the dark, slanting throat of their tunnel of refuge. Charis counted them as they passed her.
She kept a reassuring smile on her face, wishing to erase the fear that flashed in their eyes, if nowhere else. These children knew her; she was their healer. She fought pain and death. Often she won, sometimes she lost. Will you make it not hurt? Huge, frightened eyes begged her. Will you fight this, too?
I will, she promised with a nod. Not for her to hide here, though. She would fight!
“In you go now, Eithne. You, too, Aidan. That’s the way.”
Charis filed in last, carefully wedging a stone in the low opening so that she could see the small fire that burned a child’s pace away. Low, edgy voices were just ahead, and Charis mentally approved of the flickering candlelight. It was so dark that the children would be afraid to be there any longer than necessary.
“Healer! What do we do when the babies cry?” Boy or girl, Charis couldn’t tell from where she was, but the speaker was low to the ground, several paces ahead.
The healer tried to infuse her voice with strength and security, much as she would make an infusion for healing purposes. “Give them something sweet to suck on, or allow them to suckle on your finger. Bounce them gently. Sing quiet songs. You will find ways, I know. You have seen your mothers quiet the wee ones all your lives.”
After a few more questions, Charis told the children to take care of each other. “We will come for you when we’ve defeated the Northmen,” she concluded. Before leaving, she touched Aislinn on the shoulder and pulled her a pace away, around dirty legs and small bags of provisions the children were already passing around.
“Yes, Healer?” the girl whispered.
“You know how to open the door from within, right?”
The girl nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving Charis’s face. “Yes . . . do you think I’ll have to? Won’t you come for us?”
“I hope to, of course, but in case I can’t, you will have to be the chieftain here of the children. Keep them safe, lass. Listen for the sounds of battle and keep the little ones still, then listen for the stillness outside before leading them out. Do you understand? We’ll not have you captured by the Northmen! You must stay here and be safe!”
“Y-yes, Charis. I—I’ll keep them safe.” The girl pushed a stray lock of hair behind one ear. “Just come back for us.”
Charis nodded and stroked Aislinn’s long, black hair. “I will. Be safe.”
With a last look at the young ones, Charis slipped back out the door, closing it with the secret latching, and moving so as not to cast a shadow that Devin or Devlin might spy. They would be beyond furious if they discovered her above ground.
She unearthed a spear she had hidden under the wall of the smith’s home. Just as she was dusting it off and checking the leather bindings, she heard the distinctive, twin roars of her husbands.
“They’re here! All to your places! Man the gate and stoke the fires!”
Heart pounding loudly in her chest, Charis clamped her lips shut and ran away from the roars, spear at the ready, hoping that she would kill one of the invaders herself. One way or another.
Chapter 5
“What are you doing?” Cowan demanded as a beardless man pulled him to a tree just outside the rath in the monastery’s vicinity. “I thought your leader wanted me with you!”
Naturally, the young man didn’t understand a word Cowan had said and, with only a harsh look, the red-haired youth proceeded to tie him to the nearest oak tree, using the bond around his wrists as anchorage.
Cowan shouted at the braided leader. “You there! I thought you wanted me with you! Don’t just leave me here!” What if he were taken as an enemy by those within the rath? What if the vikingr burned the fields around him and the fire spread? He would be roasted alive—not a happy prospect. Far worse than slavery, and it left no chance of escape.
Over the walls of the village, perhaps a boat’s length away, Cowan heard the welcome sound of Gaeilge. “Who are you? Are you being held prisoner?”
The sun escaped from behind a wall of clouds as Cowan sought the friendly face that went with the voice of a fellow islander. The dirt wall surrounding the village of Ragor—a village his father knew of, but avoided—was topped with several heads, spear blades, and the strange shimmering of air that indicated great heat. Hope surged in Cowan’s heart; they were ready to meet the intruders. The braided leader, Agnarr, had only twenty men with him; surely the villagers could defeat such a paltry raiding party.
He pulled at the rough ropes that held him. “I’m Cowan, King Branieucc’s son of Fiatach! They’ve made me a prisoner!”
The dark-haired warrior at the wall lifted his spear and shouted back. “We’ll change that!” A riotous, victorious-sounding whoop sounded all along the wall when the warrior declared his intention.
Cowan had to smile. Yes, surely they’d free him. However, since nothing in this world was certain, he started working furiously on the ropes that cut into the skin of his wrists. “Jesu, help me,” he muttered as he twisted his hands back and forth.
While he did so, he eyed the barbarians’ approach to the closed village gate. A shield-rimmed group they were, moving slowly along the dirt path. Secrecy at this point was impossible, so they’d fortified themselves the best way they could. Cowan had to acknowledge that they were hiding the battering ram effectively.
The battering ram. He had to warn the villagers!
He took in the breath to shout, but a resounding cry vibrated in the air around him as the villagers of Ragor attacked the approaching Northmen. Fiery arrows, swift spears, and even red-hot bits of metal went flying over the earthen wall to clang uselessly against armor and shields. The raiders started to run uphill, straight to the gate.
Whoosh-thump!
The heavy ram the raiders carried crunched into the gates of the village. Cowan grunted as if he’d been struck as well. More arrows shot fire into the midst of the raiders. One invader fell away, screaming, as his hair became a torch in the late morning’s light. Cowan shouted encouragement to the warriors as an arrow pierced the eye of another invader so that he, too, was rolling on the grassy ground.
But there were eighteen more, and Cowan feared the damage they would cause before the villagers brought them all down.
The sharp, defiant splintering of wood came a breath before the gate gave way to the onslaught of the enemy. Screaming to whatever heathen gods they worshiped, his captors lowered their shields, for the most part, and ran headlong into Ragor.
Cowan kept struggling against his bindings, though the rope cut his flesh and he was losing feeling in his fingers, and prayed that the Northmen would all land on Éire’s spears.
Devlin had been yelling at someone. Charis had itched to see who it was, for it was someone outside the village, she was sure.
Secrecy, though, demanded she stay as far away from her husbands as practical. And she did, until the shouts from the gates told her that Ragor had been invaded. She bolted into action, taking careful aim at the men who were leading the way into the rath. A tall man with a yellow beard and two long, blond braids under an iron helm caught her eye first and she took immediate aim. Her husbands had, over the years of their marriage, taught her the use of weapons. She could wield a light blade—even if her husbands jested with her that it was merely a long knife—throw a spear, and defend herself with a shield. She’d also learned how to take out someone’s eyes with her thumbs, and she knew how and where to kick a man to disable him. Devin had insisted on that last part because, he had said, they would not always be around to protect her.
I have to protect them! she told herself. The need was great, making her heart pound inside her body. It seemed as if her sight grew more keen as she held her spear and chose her target. It wasn’t just her husband who needed to be protected, but all the children, too. Narrowing her focus, she could see the Northman, could distinguish the individual strands of his hair. She could see where the metal was joined on his hel
met. You can do this, she reminded herself. She willed the spear to fly to her target, hoped it wouldn’t be diverted from its course by another person, by the wind, by anything. Then she took a step back to add momentum to her throw and let it fly.
She tracked the spear as it shot through the air over the heads of the barbarians. It’s going to hit that Northman right in the eye! It was almost as if the air itself were guiding it.
No! He looked down to adjust his shield and her spear missed by perhaps half a handspan, hitting the Northman’s helmet instead. She cursed aloud at her error, for she had no more spears on hand. The best that could be said for her shot was that she succeeded in baring his head to the assault of any of the warriors nearer to him.
Devlin’s roar distracted her. Her husband was already at a disadvantage from the tooth extraction earlier. She hated to think of the toll the battle would take on him, and ran in his direction, needing to be with him.
Screams surrounded her. Charis hardened her heart and plunged into the middle of the battle. Men and women were dying.
Blood. Earth. Dirt. The disgusting stench of spilled guts filled her nostrils as she stepped over the body of a neighbor. She didn’t pause, but went on, seeking the man whose helm she had removed. Shouts assailed her, calls for “Healer!” But she had to get to her men! Her failure to slay the leader meant she had to do her best for them.
“Charis!”
One of the women of the village was calling. Charis dipped into herself for the peace she’d need to be a healer, not a warrior bent on saving her village.
“Maeve! Here I am, lass. What have they done to you?” Maeve was an older woman, a grandmother with white hair and wiry muscles that made her valuable in defense. But all the wisdom of her years could not build armor to guard from the axe in her back. Strange, but the older woman didn’t seem in pain. Charis saw why and bit her lip. The axe blade had cut dead center. Maeve’s backbone was cracked for certain.