Erinsong

by Mia Marlowe

  Suddenly Brenna felt the weight of a hand on her shoulder. She sucked breath in over her teeth, ready to scream, when a palm clamped over her mouth.

  “Be easy, girl,” Jorand whispered in her ear. “Keep still.”

  Brenna watched, motionless, as the raiding party glided by them, too caught up in their own conversations to notice the glint of two pairs of eyes tracking their movements from shore. The Northmen started a grunting chant and she recognized with a start it was the same song Jorand had sung in snatches when he first came to her.

  As the dragonship disappeared around a turn in the waterway, the aftershakes of terror hit her. Jorand folded her into his arms to still her shuddering.

  “Hush now.” He murmured endearments into her hair, trying to soothe her. “They’re gone.”

  “I know, but—”

  “I won’t let any hurt come to you, Brenna.”

  She stopped shivering and clasped him tightly. Finally, she felt him pull away.

  “Wait here,” Jorand said. “I’ll be back.

  “Where are ye going?”

  “After them.” He turned and headed toward the hidden coracle. “Those men are familiar to me. I mean to get some answers. I’m not sure how, but I know their leader.”

  “So do I.”

  He spun on his heel then. Slowly, understanding dawned on his face.

  “He’s the one.” She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked in hopeless misery. She felt her muscles constrict as she struggled to maintain control.

  Brenna saw a cold shadow pass over Jorand’s features as his mouth settled into a grim line.

  “I will kill him for you,” Jorand promised with cold fury. He turned and continued toward their small boat. He had hidden the craft beneath brush and broken boughs in case they encountered unwanted traffic. Now he tossed the concealment aside and untied the prow from the gnarled oak.

  “No, don’t go.” Brenna threw her arms around his waist and buried her face in the middle of his back. “There are too many of them.”

  “Woman, let me be,” he growled, twisting out of her grasp. Then he softened his tone. “Wait here. I’ll try to be back before dawn.”

  He put a shoulder to the coracle and began shoving it back into the river Shannon.

  Panic cast its tentacles over Brenna. She’d thought never to be free from the terror and guilt of her sister’s violation, but her wounded soul was beginning to heal. Already, Jorand’s tenderness wiped away all but the deepest scars on her heart. If he got himself killed, she knew she’d never recover. She had to stop him.

  One of the bits of brush Jorand had used to hide the ship was a stout limb as big around as her arm. She picked it up and, in a flash of inspiration, realized it would make an admirable club.

  She took aim at his head and swung with all her might. The branch connected with his temple with a sickening thud.

  He never saw the blow coming.

  “I’ll not be losing ye to the likes of them,” Brenna said as her husband collapsed in an unconscious heap.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Light mist dripped from the edges of the lean-to. Brenna dipped a cloth into the leather bucket and held it to the egg-sized knot swelling Jorand’s brow. His eyes were still half-closed. He hadn’t stirred beyond a groan or two when she dragged his body up from the riverbank toward their little camp.

  Halfway back to the smoldering fire, she’d remembered the boat. She left him splayed on the long grass while she splashed into the Shannon after the coracle. She managed to snag the tow rope before the small craft drifted out of her reach. Now it was bobbing in the river at the end of its tether, but at least it was securely lashed to the oak again.

  When she got him settled back at their camp, Jorand’s hands were cold and his lips an unhealthy shade of blue. In an effort to warm him, Brenna rebuilt their fire. She watched the steady rise and fall of his chest as the night wore on, trying to tell herself that was a good sign.

  A lark trilled in a nearby tree and was promptly joined by his neighbors in a chorus of rejoicing over surviving the terrors of another night. Overhead, streaks of pearly gray slashed the darkness. Dawn was fast approaching.

  Maybe daylight would open Jorand’s eyes. She hoped so. How could he have thought of leaving her in the wilds to chase down that pack of rabid dogs?

  “Men,” she muttered under her breath.

  Why did he have to race off to avenge Sinead now when the deed couldn’t be undone? What good would it do? His getting killed wouldn’t bring back her sister, wouldn’t erase her guilt. She tried to feel upset with him, but couldn’t.

  Instead, she flagellated herself. How could she have struck him in the exact spot of his previous hurt? Perhaps she’d done him a serious injury. What if he lost his memory again? What if he forgot her? In her panic, she hadn’t taken the time to consider the consequences.

  Her gut twisted in knots as she fingered the tender bruise. His skin was still cool under her touch.

  “O God, I didn’t mean to hit him that hard,” she prayed. “Lord of Heaven, be merciful and forgive me.

  “Maybe you should be more concerned about me forgiving you.” One blue eye squinted up at her. Jorand struggled to sit up, then groaned and fell back on their bedding. His hand flew to his temple.

  Brenna released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  “Ah! Ye’re alive and in your right mind! God be praised.” She leaned down and peppered his face with kisses. “ ‘Tis sorry I am, but ye see that I had to do it.”

  “Why?” He pushed her away and dragged in a deep breath.

  “Why indeed.” She sat back on her heels, hands fisted at her waist. “For one thing, there were too many of them and only one of ye, in case ye hadn’t noticed.”

  “You think me so powerless?”

  “I think ye dim-witted to barge into danger against such odds and to no purpose.”

  “No purpose, she says,” Jorand grumbled. “Don’t you want to see him dead?”

  “Aye, of course I do.” She softened her tone and leaned down to caress his stiff jawline. “I’ve wished the man dead every day since I first clapped eyes on him, but I had rather see ye living.”

  “I told you I’d be back,” he said, refusing to be mollified. “My word is my oath, I’m not in the habit of making promises I don’t intend to deliver.”

  “And I’m not in the habit of standing by, wringing me hands, while someone I care for heads for disaster.”

  He glared up at her. “Interfere again and the disaster will be my hand on your backside.”

  She flinched, but anger flared to life in her. She was prepared to argue more when she noticed how pale he was. She really had struck him a blow.

  “ ‘Tis sorry I am. Ye know I trust your word.” Brenna read frustration in his clenched jaw.

  “I recognized them, Brenna. Somehow, those men are a part of my past and I needed to know how. Can you not understand that the key to my memory might be with those men?”

  “Did ye not tell me just last night if ye never remembered ‘twould be no bad thing?”

  “Don’t twist my words. I only meant—” Jorand tried again to sit up. This time he had to grab his head with both hands. “Thor’s hammer, woman. What have you done to me?”

  ***

  The pain was more intense than anything he’d ever endured. White-hot waves rolled over him accompanied by a pounding drumbeat matching his heart stroke for stroke. The agony blinded him for a moment. Then colors poured back into his brain, swirling in a maelstrom of blood red against the backs of his eyes. Voices assaulted him from all sides, muffled at first and then distinct and crisp, but so numerous, he couldn’t make out what any of them were saying.

  A flood of smells engulfed him, warm bread and exotic spices mixed with steaming piles of dung. One after another and jumbled together, the scents swarmed over him, both pleasing and repulsive, all equally unreal.

  Every nerve in his body screamed in un
ison and he rolled into a tight ball, still clutching his head.

  Then just as suddenly, everything came clear again and he was aware of the sweet grass under him. He felt Brenna’s arms around him, rocking him gently. She whispered a furious repetitive prayer.

  “Brenna.” His voice was hoarse and raw. Jorand realized he must have cried out in the throes of the fit.

  “Aye, I’m here, husband,” she answered. “Rest ye now. All will be well. Ye’ll see. All will be well.”

  He let her continue to rock him, but he knew the truth. All would not be well.

  He remembered. He remembered everything.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Brenna stood in the stern of the boat, gazing intently down the wide ribbon of water.

  “According to the map, we should be there. Does anything look familiar to you yet?” Jorand bent forward and gave the oars another long-armed pull. They were traveling against the current and the wind that favored them up to this point had all but died.

  “Nothing,” Brenna admitted. “I don’t recognize a thing.” She plopped back down on her seat and adjusted the steering oar to keep them as close to the center of the river as possible. She’d left Clonmacnoise less than a year ago, but she’d tried to force the ugliness that had occurred there from her mind. She found it difficult to call the place back now. “Maybe that hillock yonder, but I cannot be sure. Ye must understand we were not encouraged to go a-wandering beyond the walls of the abbey. ‘Tis me sorrow that I did.”

  “Why did you ever leave your father’s keep, Brenna?”

  “Many reasons,” she said. “For one, I didn’t want to be forced into a marriage.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said, pulling a face at her.

  She swatted at him playfully. “Ye know ye’re not in the least.”

  Jorand’s lovemaking had a furious, urgent quality since she’d kept him from chasing those raiders by striking him down. He showed no ill effects from the blow, save for that initial massive headache. His interest in joining his powerful body with hers wasn’t abated one whit. He seemed more taken with her than ever, and yet he’d not spoken any words of love to her. Not once. It might have troubled her more, except for the tender expression on his face when she caught him looking at her.

  “And I’m not sorry, either. Ye have the makings of a fine husband, Jorand,” she said impishly. “Once ye’re properly trained, of course.”

  “Hmph!” He threw himself into rowing with renewed vigor.

  “The threat of an arranged marriage wasn’t the only thing that drove me from Donegal,” Brenna continued. “The main reason I went to Clonmacnoise was for the library.”

  Her voice caught as she remembered the shelves of precious volumes lining the walls. “Ever so many books and parchments. ‘Twould take a lifetime to read them all and I fully intended to do it.” She sighed. “ ‘Tis a grand place. I’ve never asked ye before. Can ye read?”

  “A little,” he said. “I know some of the runes. There’s a trick to them, you see. Sometimes, they stand for a sound and sometimes for a whole word or idea. A person has to study hard to decipher a rune stone.”

  “That does sound needlessly complicated.” Brenna watched in fascination as the muscles across his strong shoulders bunched and flattened under his smooth skin. He’d tied his hair back with a leather thong and her gaze was drawn to the spot behind his ear she loved to kiss. His hairline glistened with perspiration. Brenna ran her tongue over her lips, almost tasting the saltiness of his skin.

  “I could teach ye to read,” she offered, trying to ignore the way her lips tingled with the urge to kiss his neck. If they stopped to dally every time she yearned for him, they’d never reach the abbey. “Ye have taught me a great many things in a short time. Turn and turn about, I say. Mayhap I’ll return the favor.”

  “And very pleasant lessons those have been,” he said, his voice a low rumbling purr.

  Her secret place clenched and she forced herself to look away. Marriage was turning her into a terrible wanton, she decided with a small smile. Father Michael had always preached subjugation of all appetites of the flesh, but her craving for this Northman didn’t lend itself to modest consumption.

  Oh, devil take what Father Michael says! She leaned down to plant a kiss on that tender spot and stayed to nip playfully at his earlobe.

  The oars were left trailing in the river Shannon, as Jorand let them fall slack in the oar ports. He turned and gathered her onto his lap, returning her kisses with fiery ones of his own.

  When he finally released her mouth, he sat still, searching her face for a moment. She was unable to decipher the meaning of his intense look. It was as if he were trying to burn her image into his memory. Surely he’d have no trouble remembering her now, she reasoned. A lazy smile creased his face and she dismissed the niggling twinge of worry.

  “Not that I’m complaining, but what brought this on?” His hands roved over her, sending flutters of longing dancing along the surface of her skin.

  “Are ye displeased?”

  “Of course not,” he said before nuzzling her ear. “I only want to know what I did so I can be sure to do it again.”

  “ ‘Tis just ye. The look of ye, the smell, the feel, even the growling sound of your voice.” Brenna sighed and snuggled into his chest. “Whenever I’m near ye, I’m like a child with a sweet tooth and ye are a tray of honeyed fruit.”

  He kissed her again, long and deep.

  “Do ye have any idea how fine ye are?” She trailed her fingertips along his jaw down to his collarbone. “I’m the most blessed woman in the world to be having ye for a husband.”

  “Brenna—”

  “Not another word till I finish, or I may not be able to.” She drew in a ragged breath. “After what happened at Clonmacnoise, I never hoped to feel this way for any man. I’d go anywhere with ye. I don’t even mind ye are dragging me to that den of Northmen called Dublin—”

  He clamped a hand over her mouth to stop her in mid-thought. “Let’s not go.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t need to go to Dublin. We’ll see about the child at the abbey, and once we have him, we’ll sail north, back to Donegal.”

  “But ye were so set on going to see if ye’ve kin there.”

  The odd expression passed over his face again so quickly Brenna thought she might have imagined it.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he said with a smile that seemed forced.

  “So be it,” she said, hardly daring to believe her good fortune. She’d embraced traveling to Dublin with the same enthusiasm the early Christian martyrs must have felt about their visit to the Roman lions. “I’ll be more than pleased to be heading home. But ye haven’t let me finish what I needed to tell ye. ‘Tis how I care for ye. Do ye not know that I...” She drew a deep breath.

  Smoke.

  The acrid odor invaded her nostrils and sent a tingling premonition down her spine. It was far too strong to be a crofter’s cooking fire. “Do ye smell that?”

  She slid off his lap and looked upriver, hand raised to shield her eyes. The glare of late afternoon sun turned the river to molten gold. A tall gray plume rose in the distance, beyond the next bend in the waterway.

  “Whatever’s ablaze, it’s big,” Jorand said solemnly as he returned to the oars.

  Brenna’s heart hammered a warning. A large flat granite boulder next to a trio of shuddering aspens caught her eye as they glided by. A stab of recognition coursed through her.

  “ ‘Tis the abbey,” Brenna said flatly. “Someone has sacked Clonmacnoise.”

  They broke free of the trees and in the barren land of Offaly, the cloister came into view on the bank of the wide river. Light ash fell in the air around them. The gray stone walls seemed intact, but the heavy oak portal had been smashed to kindling, its remains swinging drunkenly on one iron hinge. Clonmacnoise was a double monastery, home to a community of monks and nuns who lived in separate enclaves but worked and worshipped in the
same place. Inside the walls the compound was dotted with little beehive-shaped cells, the homely houses of the monks who tended the grounds. Most of them were made of stone, but the ones that were wattle-and-daub sent spires of smoke flying.

  The fine chapel’s thatch roof was gone, leaving only a blackened skeleton of charred beams. Of the little church built by St. Ciaran himself, there was no trace. The stone tower that overshadowed Clonmacnoise belched out dark fumes. Brenna heard the crackle and hiss of flames before she saw them dancing at the far end of the compound.

  “The library,” she whispered, not daring to trust her voice further. It would burn for days. The exquisite volume of Saint Augustine’s Confessions bound in Spanish leather, the ancient Greek Septuagint, the fabulous jewel-encrusted Skellig Michael codex, all the treasures of art, wisdom, and devotion hidden between the bindings in the library of Clonmacnoise Abbey were reduced to smoldering ash. The loss was unimaginable. She swayed a little and was grateful when Jorand caught her in his arms.

  Suddenly a new scent reached them, a sweetish smell that reminded Brenna of roasting meat.

  Burning flesh.

  She clamped a hand over her mouth, fearful she’d be sick. The faces of the kindly nuns, old Murtaugh the sexton, and even imperious Father Ambrose reeled before her eyes. They were all totally without harm and obviously without any defense as well.

  “Sweet Jesus,” she breathed. “Who could do such a thing?”

  “We both know the answer,” Jorand said, his mouth tight. “Northmen.”

  “Aye, the raiding party,” she nodded. “But that was days ago. Surely something could be saved. The nuns and monks wouldn’t let the fires burn unabated unless...”