With a soft exclamation, the Viking picked up a dead stick of wood, and Conor could see runes lightly carved on one side. Olan then pushed aside dead leaves, and using the rune marker, began digging through the dirt. He soon replaced the twig with his hand and a disreputable dagger.
It was not long after that he uncovered a hinged casket, about the breadth of his massive hands and twice as high, and a well-worn leather pouch. Olan gathered his findings in his arms and rose to his feet.
“It is true that I have no place to offer your sister that I can claim, except my heart,” he said, his voice solemn. “But perhaps these can be a small token to you of the esteem in which I hold Lady Gwynna, and the initial portion of her bride-price.”
Conor took the proffered gifts. The casket was intricate, carved with symbols he recognized as eastern. Some of the carvings were chased with silver, some with precious gems. The box alone was fit for king or queen. Balancing the chest on one arm, he lifted the lid.
A tangle of gold and silver gleamed up at him, sitting upon a kingdom’s worth of stones, polished and not. Conor’s artificer would salivate upon catching sight of such a treasure, eager to coax them into intricate works of art.
Olan reached into the box, lifting a fistful of chain and coins from inside. With his other he rooted among the loose stones until he found two matched emeralds the size of a babe’s fist.
“All the rest of the box you may have, as a first payment on land to settle my wife,” he said with arrogance, polishing the twin gems on his tunic. “These I would gift to Gwynna, if you agree to have us wed.”
“Think you to buy my sister?”
The tips of Olan’s ears turned a fiery red. “You may think I jest when I say this, but I have loved your sister since the moment I awakened to find her real. I will protect her and our children yet to be born with blood and bone and flesh and muscle. I love your sister as I have never loved anyone. Can you say me the same about my sister?”
His reply was swift and brutally honest. “No.”
“And yet you would still wed Erika. Why?”
Why, indeed? It was a question that had haunted him since Erika had first asked it, a question that crept upon him unawares. Why was he so adamant in his intention to have the Angel of Death for his bride? Was it because she fired his blood as no woman had done? Was it because of the proud, regal way she carried herself? Was it because she was the one woman, save his sister, who did not quail when she looked at his ravaged face?
Or was it simply because, in the darkest reaches of his blighted soul, he recognized a kindred spirit in the Angel of Death?
If wishing weren’t so futile, he would wish that he had some of the younger man’s passion. Wish that his impending wedding had come about because of love, passion or even money. But those things were not a part of him. He had been hopeful and loving once, until guilt and betrayal carved it out of him.
“Your sister and I will be a good match,” he said after an indeterminable moment. “I will not be harsh with her.”
Olan snorted. “I can see why Erika is so eager to wed you.”
The sarcasm at any other time would have bounced harmlessly off him. Today, it rubbed him raw. “Your sister has no place and no people. Every tribal ruler and over-king from Dubh Linn to Sligeach wants the Angel of Death. I can change that. I can give her a home, a people, a name. A place she can be safe. A husband who is not weak.”
Olan’s expression was passing close to a smile. “There is truth in what you say. But I have told Gwynna and I will tell you: if Erika wins your duel, we will leave here to find a place for her. If she loses and still wishes to leave, I will do whatever I can to achieve that wish. I owe her that much.”
“And if she loses and decides to stay?”
“Then I will give her into your care and welcome you as a brother.”
Unlike most of his kind, the Northman seemed to be without guile. Perhaps over time, they could become friends. But Conor was not free with his trust. “You would give her with such ease?”
Instead of answering, Olan took the box from him, set it and his cache upon the ground, then charged into him, catching him solidly in the midsection with his massive shoulder. Conor landed with a grunt but taking Olan with him, rolling down the dew-drenched hill to the flat plain.
With his men cheering him on, Conor pummeled the younger man with abandon, receiving more than a few well-placed blows in return. His Gaelic blood sang in his ears. There was nothing more he enjoyed than a good tussle, except a good tumble with a willing woman and a tall pint of ale.
They wrestled to a draw when they were too winded and their eyes too puffed to see clearly. Wiping a trickle of blood from his chin, the Viking asked, “Are you ready to cease questioning my motives, Devil, and say me yea or nay?”
Conor staggered to his feet, squinting at the younger man through swollen eyelids. “If you hurt her…”
“I make the same promise to you.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Conor’s mouth. “As long as we understand each other.”
He helped the younger man to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, let us return to the dun. We can discuss marriage portions over a pint. All this talk of marriage makes a man thirsty.”
“Tell me about Conor.”
Erika nearly bit her lip in a futile effort to snatch the words back. But it was too late.
Gwynna looked up from her sewing, surprise clearly stamped upon her features. “What do you wish to know?”
Disconcerted, Erika put down the tangled mass of wool she attempted to card and got to her feet. What did she wish to know? What he had been like as a child? What manner of man he was? Why he never smiled?
What she knew of Conor only served to confuse her more. He was a harsh man, a fierce warrior, yet the love he held for his people and his sister shone like a beacon fire on a cold night. At times, he seemed to hate Erika almost as much as he wanted to marry her, yet his touch and his kisses were heaven.
“Erika?” Gwynna touched her arm. “Let us go outside. I always find fresh air a good companion to conversation.”
Relieved to be free of her failed attempt at spinning, Erika followed the dark-haired woman down the stairs and out of the hall, where Padraig and another guard joined them. Spring had rolled upon the land, and it seemed that every living thing rejoiced in the fact that Beltaine was less than two weeks away. According to Gwynna, the holiday was always a festive occasion in Dunlough. With every member of the clan gathering from the four corners of the land, drawn by the duel between their chieftain and the Angel of Death, Dunlough would be bursting at the seams within days.
Glad to be outside, Erika closed her eyes and inhaled the crisp afternoon air, allowing it to clear her mind as well as her lungs. “You and Conor are very close, as I am to Olan.”
“Yes,” Gwynna smiled, “we are, at that. Murrough was fifteen years older than Conor, twenty more than me. Murrough was sent to fosterage near Clonmacnoise before I was born. Though Conor and I were separated by our sex, we were bound tight by our blood.”
“What was he like as a child?”
“Like most boys, I would believe. He laughed and played and fought. He was a quick learner and loved going to the monastery, even at a young age, to learn from the monks there. There was talk that he would perhaps join the brotherhood.”
“Conor a priest?” Erika couldn’t help her disbelief.
“I know, ’tis difficult to credit, but I tell you true. Of course, the desire to be in a room filled with books warred most constant with the call of the sea, with traveling. He convinced our father to forgo the last years of his fosterage in return for spending time on a merchant boat. He left when he was sixteen, and traveled the world for near six years.”
Her eyes clouded with memory. “I had been wed three years when Conor returned, and came to see me. I had learned by then what to avoid doing or saying to set mac Broin to anger, and I had learned to conceal how he released th
at anger on me.
“So it was that Conor, who knew and loved me as none other had, never knew my misery. Until I returned to Dunlough for a visit while mac Broin was away, and he came looking for me.
“He beat me unconscious. Conor came upon us, and from what I was told, killed mac Broin with his bare hands. Conor saved my life, but I believe that was the day he began dying inside.”
Erika was silent. Even though she had overheard Gwynna’s conversation with Olan, the Irishwoman’s tale of her first marriage had Erika wanting to do battle. Instead, she attempted to concentrate on Gwynna’s words. “You said Conor began dying inside. Why do you say this?”
Green eyes misted with tears. “Many reasons. For one, Conor never forgave Murrough for wedding me to mac Broin. They argued most fierce about it. For another, I had concealed my misery too well, for Conor believed he could find the happiness he believed I possessed, and wedded mac Broin’s sister, Aislingh.
“They had been married for a year when Conor saved my life. Their marriage became strained after mac Broin’s death, but no one knew the extent until we lost our brother Murrough and his heirs in the battle near Dubh Linn two years ago.”
She turned to Erika. “Conor came home a different man. He’d never wanted to rule Dunlough, but he wasn’t given a choice. Never once did he shirk his duties, for he loves our land and its people most dear. But something happened between Conor and Aislingh, what I do not know. All I know is that she became even less civil to him, then dishonored him by giving birth to another’s babe.”
Erika felt a cold knot form in the pit of her stomach. She knew the end of the story. Aislingh had taunted Conor one last time, then attempted to kill him and only succeeded in slashing his face instead. She and her babe had died, but she had taken a piece of Conor with her. Would the shambles of Conor’s first marriage overshadow his second? What would befall her if she lost their duel?
She must have made a sound of distress, for Gwynna clasped her numbed fingers. “I do not tell you this to dismay you, but to benefit you. Conor is a good man, a proud man. He knew how to laugh once. I believe with all my heart that he will again, and it will be because of you.”
Panic clamped an iron fist around her heart and she had to force words out of her throat. “Gwynna, if I win the duel, I intend to be quit of Dunlough.”
The older woman’s eyes were solemn. “I know. And Olan will go with you.”
Misery replaced Erika’s panic. She loathed breaking this kind woman’s heart, any more than she wanted to wound her brother. “Forgive me.”
Gwynna managed a tremulous smile. “There is nothing to forgive. You must do what is right, what is in your heart. And yet I hope, when you think of places you wish to call home, you will think of Dunlough.”
Erika turned to the scenery once more so that Gwynna would not be able to see the battle she waged with herself. Intrinsic to her nature was the belief that the Norns dictated her life, and the life of all Vikings. She had fought against that, taking up the sword instead of a loom, freeing herself and fleeing her homeland. What if the last seven years of her life, her journeys through Europe and the Far East, had been under the direction of the Norns, to bring her here?
Shaken by the import of her thoughts, Erika closed her eyes. “I am honor-bound to fight this duel. I cannot turn away.”
Gwynna’s response was cut off by the arrival of their brothers. Their guards carried a brace of deer, and the two men looked as if they had been in battle.
“What befell you?” Gwynna demanded, taking in their satisfied smiles.
Eyes narrowed, Erika sheathed the dagger she had drawn at their approach. She should have known that Olan would avenge her when he could. “They befell each other.”
“What?”
As Conor and Olan dismounted, Erika explained, “They were fighting. Each other.”
Gwynna turned to the two men, folding her arms across her chest. “Does she speak true?”
Conor looked at his sister with his one good eye. “Gwyn, we are unharmed—”
“Unharmed? One eye is twice the size of the other and you say you’re unharmed?”
Olan was not wise enough to stay out of the discussion. “Come now, love, it was just a friendly—”
“Do not dare to placate me!” Gwynna shook off his hand and fixed him with an emerald glare. “Not two months past did I drag you from the clutches of death, and this is how you thank me?”
She released a stream of Gaelic curses that left both men blushing and Erika choking with laughter. She was unable to interject a word, but it wasn’t necessary, in any case. Gwynna was saying enough for both of them.
Olan gave Conor a long-suffering glance. “Why did you not tell me that my betrothed is as fierce as a wolf?”
“Would you have believed me? Your wedded life will not be dull.”
Gwynna broke off her tirade with a gasp. “Betrothed?”
Olan gathered the dark-haired woman in his arms. “I have asked your brother for your hand, and he has agreed.”
Astonishment dealt a blow to the pit of Erika’s stomach, causing the air to leave her lungs on a gasp. She turned to Conor. “Is this truth?”
Silver eyes on the couple, he nodded. “It is. The brehons will arrive just before Beltaine, and all will be formalized then.”
“Why?”
His gaze swept hers. “You question my motives, Angel?”
Erika forced her fists to loosen, for she did indeed question him. Questioning everything and everyone had saved her life on more than one occasion. “I simply wonder why you would do such a thing.”
He placed an arm about her shoulders, turning her to face the couple. “That is why.”
She watched as her brother and Conor’s sister embraced. Their blissful expressions were almost painful to behold.
“Our siblings have found happiness in each other,” Conor said, his voice for her alone. “I will not deny my sister that gift, even if it is denied me.”
What meaning should she glean from that? Did he mean that happiness would be denied him because of her actions? Or that it would be denied him always, no matter the outcome of their duel?
Questions seething through her, she raised her eyes to Conor’s. For the first time, she delved beyond the enemy, the warrior, in search of the man.
And found him.
Something indefinable but familiar lurched within her, so deep she never sensed its presence before now, had never needed it before now. It shouted with silent joy, a rapture so potent it was dizzying. She would swear that the wind echoed that ecstasy, whispering one word.
Home.
Chapter Seventeen
Beltaine arrived, and with it the day of the duel. Anticipation gripped Conor. Before the day ended, Erika would be his.
“Do you realize all the bards in Connacht can speak of nothing save this duel?”
Conor turned to the man beside him. Niall mac Laighin, chieftain of Dun Lief, was a barrel of a man ten years Conor’s senior. During his fosterage at Dun Lief, Conor had worshiped the very ground Niall walked upon. That idolatry had tempered to respect and then friendship after Conor’s return from his travels.
Niall fixed Conor with a knowing grin. “’Tis certain we’ll be overrun with odes ere the evening is out. The Devil of Dunlough and the Angel of Death. This day will be spoken of for years to come.”
“If we get through it.” Conor seethed with nervous energy. He was more than ready to dispense with this senseless duel and take Erika to wife.
“You seem disquieted, my friend,” Niall observed. “Do you fear your lady Angel will fail to appear?”
Conor ignored the multitude arrayed behind them in the practice field and concentrated upon the path leading from the dun. “The sun is not yet at its zenith. Erika will appear.”
Although he knew Erika would keep her pledge to duel him, Conor remained discomfited. Hard put to explain why, even to himself, he nevertheless knew he stood at a significant turning poi
nt in his life.
Something had altered between him and the Angel, more than the transition from enemies to allies. Each moment he spent with her, Conor became more aware of the change. Staring into her eyes, he could sense something ancient and powerful stirring deep inside him.
“I have heard news that might be of interest to you.” Niall broke into his thoughts. “It is said that Magda journeys to Dunlough.”
“Magda?” Conor’s pulse raced. “Murrough’s wife?” He had not seen Magda since her period of mourning ended and she quit Dunlough to return to her relatives in the south.
“The same,” Niall confirmed. “What will you do?”
What indeed? Conor pushed away memories that threatened to cloud this important day. He could ill afford to be plagued by guilt before his contest with Erika. Too much was at stake. “Magda was once mistress of Dunlough. I will not turn her away.”
Gwynna and Fionnuala, Niall’s wife, joined them. The flame-haired mistress of Dun Lief had lost none of her beauty in the course of her fifteen years with Niall. Though both had tempers as charged as lightning, theirs was a happy union that produced four strapping sons and three daughters as lovely as their mother.
Fionnuala slipped her hand into the crook of her husband’s proffered arm and gave Conor a smile. “Gwynna has informed me of how exciting life has been in Dunlough of late, though I can scarce believe it. I would have you tell me true, Conor. Is the Angel of Death as magnificent as is said?”
“More, but I will let you judge that for yourself.” Conor nodded toward the path. “She comes.”
The crowd fell silent as Erika came into view, followed by Olan and Múireann. Her gleaming hair pulled back into the single braid, she wore a pale leine and braes embellished in the Gaelic style. Over her right shoulder, the jeweled pommel of her sword fractured the sunlight.
“Mother of God,” Niall whispered. “No offense, my friend, but I may have to change my wager.”
“None taken.” Others had the same thought, Conor noted. Most of the women seemed to be casting their lots with the Valkyrie.
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