by Jayne Castel
“I don’t want you with me,” he said after a long pause. “I’m not fit company for anyone … it’s not fair on you.”
She shook her head. “You’re not getting rid of me Donnel mac Muin. I’ll follow you like a dog … wherever you go.”
Donnel barked out a humorless laugh. “Gods, you’re stubborn, woman. You’ve been a thorn in my arse ever since I got back from fighting the Caesars.”
Eithni drew herself up, indignant. “Someone has to stand up to you.” Her gaze narrowed as she stared him down. “You don’t scare me, Battle Eagle.”
He looked away. “Don’t call me that.”
Donnel strode down the valley, aware of the woman following close behind upon Reothadh. He had given her his pony to ride, for he noticed she was limping from the cuts to her feet.
Donnel clenched his jaw. He did not want Eithni with him—she was a responsibility he did not need—and yet he could not dredge up the will to fight her. The scene with Galan had drained him. He felt empty, weary to the bone. He felt as if he could lie down and sleep for days. Before Eithni had arrived, shattering his solitude, it had felt as if the wind blew straight through him. He had felt as if he were the last man alive.
The unthinkable had happened—Galan had banished him. There was no worse punishment for a warrior. Death was preferable.
Battle Eagle. I’m not worthy of the name.
Galan’s words still rang in his ears; he would never forget them. The look on his brother’s face as he had banished him would stay with him forever. He would never be able to return to Dun Ringill—not unless he could humble himself to make amends for what he had done and erase the bitterness and rage from his heart.
Donnel was not sure he ever could.
Eithni’s arrival had just made him feel worse. Not only had he been exiled, but he had involved her too. She was grateful to him, but the truth was he had acted selfishly. He had not killed Loxa for her but for himself. It was vengeance for the grudge he had carried against The Boar for a year now. He had enjoyed pummeling Loxa to the ground and taking a knife to the warrior’s throat. He had liked that too much.
He had gone too far, crossed an invisible line. Galan had warned him, told him to rein himself in, yet he had not listened. The need for reckoning had turned him deaf to his brother.
Galan is right, he thought dully. I’m a danger to myself, and to the tribe. I wouldn’t trust me.
Aye, for there was still a part of him that did not regret slaying Loxa, a part of him that would do it again if given the chance. Yet killing the warrior had not given him the sense of vindication he had expected. He was not victorious, just hollowed out, numb.
Ahead of the valley the land opened out, and he spied the dark line of a pine forest. It would not take them long to reach it, and they would make camp there for the night. After that Donnel was not sure where he would go. For the first time in his life he had no purpose.
The shadows were lengthening when they reached the forest of tall spruce at last. The resinous scent of sap lay heavy in the air, and there was a mattress of springy pine needles underfoot.
Donnel chose a small clearing to make camp and dug out a fire pit with a stone. Then Eithni went looking for firewood while he withdrew the flint and tinder he always carried in his saddle bag upon Reothadh and set to work lighting a fire. It was a slow, laborious process, but one he had learned to do as soon as he could walk. As the light started to fade, a fire roared in the pit. Eithni drew close, warming her hands over the flames, her pretty face drawn and pale.
Donnel straightened up. “We need food,” he said roughly. Truthfully, he had no appetite at all; the day’s events had sickened him, robbing him of hunger. However, he could see that Eithni needed to eat. He had a bow, a slingshot, and a knife. He would go hunting. “I’ll be back soon.”
Eithni glanced up, those soulful eyes resting upon him. “You’re not going to run off are you?”
He watched her, disarmed by the directness of her gaze. “No,” he replied, too weary to care if she believed him or not. “I won’t.”
Chapter Fifteen
Tending Wounds
EITHNI TURNED THE grouse upon a spit, holding it over the hot coals. Fat dripped off the carcass, causing the fire to smoke. The aroma of roasting meat filled the glade, and her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten all day and was starting to feel light-headed. Neither she nor Donnel had rations with them. She was eagerly awaiting this meal although the bird was taking forever to roast.
She glanced up then, her gaze settling upon the silent still figure sitting opposite her. Darkness had fallen now. Donnel had been away for a while, and despite his assurance that he would come back, Eithni had been both relieved and pleased when he had appeared at the fireside once more. He had not had much luck out hunting although he had managed to bring down a grouse with his slingshot.
Donnel’s brooding was starting to become oppressive. He stared into the flames—his face a cold mask, his expression giving nothing away. His eyes looked almost black in the firelight.
“I shouldn’t have let you come,” he spoke up finally, breaking the heavy silence. “What if Urcal comes after us?”
“He won’t,” Eithni replied. “Galan will smooth things between the tribes.”
Donnel’s mouth twisted. “No, he won’t. I killed Urcal’s brother. He won’t forget that in a hurry.”
A long, awkward pause followed. Eithni did not know how to answer that, for he was right. She hoped The Boar would return home after The Gathering and not hunt them.
“Supper is nearly ready,” she said brightly, hoping the news would cheer him up slightly.
Donnel shrugged. “There's no hurry,” he replied. “I've no appetite anyway.”
Eithni huffed. “Well some of us are hungry—and you should eat something.”
“Don’t nag, woman,” he growled. “It gets on my nerves.”
Eithni frowned. His words hurt her. She had forgotten how sharp tongued Donnel could be. His words now reminded her that he tolerated her company, but that was about as far as it went. He had no wish for her to help him or talk to him.
“I’m not nagging,” she said stiffly. “Don’t speak to me like that.”
Why is that it a man who speaks his mind is applauded, she thought bitterly, but a woman who does the same is named a shrew or a nag?
She removed the grouse from the embers and slid it off the skewer upon a flat rock Donnel had brought back from the brook. Then, she set to work pulling the steaming meat off the bone. It burned her fingers, yet in her annoyance at Donnel she did not care. After all she had been through she would not cower before a man.
When she had finished preparing the bird to eat, she glanced up to find Donnel watching her with a bemused look on his face.
“Well are you going to join me?” she asked.
He sighed and heaved himself off the ground. “Very well.” He joined her, lowering himself down beside her and next to the steaming grouse. Eithni passed him a leg before helping herself to some meat. It was delicious although the bird was small and they both could have done with another one each.
Once she finished Eithni wiped her hands on some dock leaves before taking the skin of water Donnel passed her. She drank deeply. The water was cool and fresh, for he had refilled the skin at the stream when he caught the bird.
Eithni passed the skin back to him, her gaze shifting to the wound on his arm. “Can I take a look at that?” she asked.
He glanced down at his bicep, his gaze narrowing as if he had only just realized he was injured. “It doesn't bother me,” he muttered.
“You know what happens to wounds that are left unattended,” she reminded him. “It won’t take me long. While you were hunting, I gathered some woundwort. It’ll stop the wound from going bad.”
Donnel inhaled sharply. “Gods, woman. Do you never give up?”
She held his gaze. “No.”
He threw up his hands. “Go on then.”
&n
bsp; Eithni set to work preparing the herb. Without her pestle and mortar, she mashed the woundwort with a stone upon a flat rock, with a splash of water. She blended the flowers and leaves up into a pulp, and then once she had cleaned the dried blood off the cut to Donnel’s bicep, she applied the paste.
Taking a closer look, she was glad he had allowed her to tend it. Wounds caused by battle weapons seemed to carry evil upon them, and soured easily. As Eithni applied the woundwort she murmured the words of a healing charm, one that Ruith had taught her. And as the seer had told her, she repeated the charm three times.
With my hands I heal
With these herbs
With these words
By the Hag’s cauldron
By the power of the night.
Evil and pain fight.
The charm is done, so mote it be.
When she had finished, Eithni moved away from Donnel and resumed her place by the fire.
Donnel did not move from his spot. Instead he stared at the dancing flames for a few moments. When he eventually spoke, his voice was weary. “I know I come across as harsh, Eithni—an ungrateful wretch. It’s just that you shouldn’t be here.”
Eithni sighed. “I thought we’d already gone over this.”
“Aye, but since then the reality of it has hit me. We’re out here in the wild on our own. No food, no shelter—and no clothing or furs for the coming winter.”
“It’s still the warm season,” Eithni replied. “We have plenty of time to organize all that. Together we’re much stronger, for we have complementary skills.” She smiled at him. “You need me.”
He glanced across at her, his mouth quirking. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“You seem to have an answer for everything this eve.”
Eithni held his gaze. “I don’t always, but tonight everything is clear to me. Back in Dun Ringill I felt so adrift at times as if life no longer held any meaning.”
“I thought you were happy at Dun Ringill?”
“I was.” She paused here, looking away. “As happy as I could be anywhere, Donnel. I bear scars no one can see. Sometimes I don’t think they’ll ever heal properly.” She glanced up, meeting his eye once more.
Donnel watched her. “I’ve heard a little of what you faced … nothing stays secret for long in a place like Dun Ringill.” He hesitated a moment before continuing. “I was sorry to hear it, Eithni. No one deserves such treatment. He deserved a far worse end than Tea gave him.”
Eithni swallowed. Donnel was the first man that she had spoken of this with. It made her feel uneasy, exposed. “I thought that I’d escape my past when I left Dun Ardtreck,” she replied quietly, “and it worked for a while. Dun Ringill was new to me, and I had much to learn … your people were so welcoming. But after time the memories started to come back. Some nights I dread going to sleep, for I dream of him and what he did to me.”
Donnel continued to observe her, and for the first time since she had sat down by the fireside with him, his expression softened. Yet he said nothing, and she was grateful for that. Sometimes you did not need words; you just needed someone to listen. Donnel was good at that. She did not feel judged or pitied.
Donnel inclined his head slightly. “You were limping badly earlier,” he said quietly. “Since you looked at my arm, shall I look at those feet?”
She waved him away. “They’re fine.”
“Who's being stubborn now?” he teased her. “Have you got any of that woundwort left?”
Eithni nodded, before motioning to the flat stone behind her where she had mashed up the herb. “Aye … there’s a little left.”
“Let’s have a look then.”
Self-conscious now, Eithni stretched out her feet before him. They were filthy after a day’s travel, and she felt embarrassed. However, Donnel did not seem to mind. He gently took hold of her left ankle and raised her foot so that he could examine her sole in the flickering firelight. She watched him narrow his gaze as he inspected the damage. “You made a mess of these,” he murmured. “They definitely need tending.”
Eithni nodded. She did not trust herself to speak. The feel of his hand on her ankle did strange things to her insides. His touch sent a frisson of pleasure down her leg to her groin as if he had just caressed her. His hand was warm and strong but his touch gentle.
Donnel began to wash her wounds, and pain lanced through Eithni’s feet. She sucked in a breath, gritting her teeth. With all that had happened today, she had almost forgotten how she had sliced her feet open while running over the sharp stones in her bid to escape.
After he had cleaned the dirt and blood off her soles, Donnel administered the woundwort. Watching him and the crease that formed between his eyebrows as he worked, Eithni found herself devouring the handsome lines of his face. When he was concentrating like this, his focus outward rather than inward for once, his features softened, and the handsome man she had seen nearly two years earlier at Tea’s handfasting resurfaced. There was a sensitivity there which had been absent all these long months. His eyelashes particularly fascinated her—they were long and dark, beautiful enough to make most women jealous.
Eithni relaxed under his light touch. Gentle yet strong and sure.
Eventually Donnel set back on his heels, his gaze meeting hers. They stared at each other for a few long moments, and an awareness grew between them that had been absent earlier.
There was tension now, the same hunger that she had felt across the fire that evening on the way to The Gathering Place. He was not looking at her as an annoyance; he stared at her like she was a desirable woman.
Elation soared within Eithni. Excitement fluttered low in her belly, and a strange hunger clawed its way up her throat. She longed to reach for him then, to feel his stubbled jaw under her finger tips. She wondered what his lips felt like to kiss.
Discomfort followed swiftly on the heels of desire though.
Eithni stiffened. I’ll not be hurt again.
Donnel blinked as if awaking, and let go of her ankle. He moved away from her, and the moment shattered.
Despite the panic that now trembled through her, Eithni felt a sense of loss at him shifting to the opposite side of the hearth, as if a chill had settled over the clearing.
Stop it. She heaved in a steadying breath. It’s for the best.
The fire needed more wood so she turned, gathered a few of the branches she had collected earlier while Donnel had been out hunting, and added them to the flames. The fire roared to life, shooting golden sparks high into the darkness, devouring the dry wood.
Eithni stared into the flames. Her reaction to Donnel’s touch had shaken her. Suddenly she wished she had not followed him after all.
Chapter Sixteen
The Deer Hunter’s Hut
THE RAIN FELL gently, pattering on the canopy of branches overhead and kissing the forest floor beneath.
Eithni walked a few yards behind Donnel. She enjoyed the feel of damp pine needles under her sore feet. Donnel led Reothadh this morning, for the pines pressed close in this part of the forest and the ground had grown uneven. Across his back Donnel carried his bow and a quiver of arrows so that he would be ready should prey of any kind cross their path. Fortunately he had brought his bow with him yesterday when he left The Gathering Place, tied behind the saddle. It would prove very useful in the days ahead.
Eithni found her gaze following Donnel. She admired the breadth of his shoulders, his proud stance. He wore breeches made of a grey-blue plaid and a dark leather sleeveless vest that revealed his muscular arms. His tall body was tense with purpose this morning, his gaze sweeping left and right.
They had set off at daybreak as soon as the grey light of dawn filtered through the trees to the east. Shortly after that the rain had begun. It was not cold though, and the air carried the sweet rich scent that only summer rain possessed.
Eithni’s stomach growled as she followed Donnel west, reminding her that she had not yet eaten today. The ful
l reality of the situation was starting to creep upon her—and for the first time she realized why Donnel worried about having her out here with him.
She was used to her morning oatcakes, warm off the griddle and dripping with butter and honey. But out here in the wild there were no oats—or any grains—for cakes or bread. There was no cream for butter, and no beehives for honey. Their diet would consist only of what they could hunt or forage. If they did not find berries or edible plants, or catch animals or fish—they would starve.
It was a sobering thought and apprehension knotted in Eithni’s belly. It fully dawned upon her what Galan had done in banishing Donnel from the tribe. He had cast him out into a brutal world where even a warrior would struggle to survive.
They walked on, and the forest floor began to slope. Soon Eithni found herself picking her way down the steep, wooded side of a valley. Ahead she could see the land fell away into a deep cleft carpeted by dark bristling pines stretching out into the distance. Great bare carven peaks thrust up beyond the trees; rain clouds partially obscured the mountains this morning.
“Where are we?” Eithni called out to Donnel.
He paused and turned back to meet her eye for the first time since they had set off at dawn. “We’re in the heart of the mountains that divide the territories of The Wolf and The Stag,” he explained. “Uninhabited save for hunting parties.”
“The Glen of the Stags,” Eithni replied, smiling as she too realized where they stood. “That’s what the folk of Dun Ardtreck call this place. You’re right—the warriors hunt here.” She glanced at the peaks rising into the clouds to the north. That is the Cruachan …” She swept her gaze south to the lower more rounded peaks. “And that must be Creagan Mora.”
“Aye,” Donnel replied with a tight smile. “Looks like you know this area better than me.”
She shook her head. “I know of this place, for the warriors would return from hunting trips with stories of its beauty—but I’ve never been here.”