“She really means to duel?” Fionnuala’s voice was just as hushed as her husband’s.
Conor felt a smile tug his lips. “It is a matter of honor, and for my lady, honor is everything.”
Niall finally tore his gaze away from Erika and faced him. “How will you let her go if you lose?”
“Who has said I intend to let her go?”
He stepped into the circle created by the crowd as Erika stopped before him. The chief brehon and the priest stood between them. Both men looked decided uncomfortable, no doubt remembering how Conor had ordered the marriage contract be written so that Erika became his wife of the highest level, his equal. The lawgiver cleared his throat, then spoke. “There have been questions surrounding the legitimacy of the contest today. The law is clear: no woman shall take up arms and go into battle. The church agrees on this.”
Murmurs arose from the crowd. Conor felt his guts clench. He had not waited so long to be denied now. But the brehon’s pronouncement was absolute. If he decided against the duel, the duel would not take place. At least, not while the brehon remained on Dunlough land.
“However,” the brehon continued, and the crowd fell silent, “this is an unusual circumstance. The rights given the woman by her father is a geas. An oath true and sworn cannot and should not be broken. The duel to first blood or disarming will commence, and may God have mercy upon them both.”
The priest blessed them, and both he and the brehon stepped back. Erika drew her sword free and passed the baldric to her brother. She twirled the leather grip on her palm, the jewel on the pommel catching the sunlight and breaking it into a thousand bits.
His eyes never leaving hers, Conor drew his own blade. Instead of his heavy broadsword, he chose a lighter blade with hilt and pommel layered with gold and silver wire and studded with gems. Despite its pretty trappings, the blade was sharp. And tested.
So that only she could hear, Conor pitched his voice low and said, “Despite the brehon’s pronouncement, you can end this now.”
To his surprise, Erika grinned. “I shall not. Besides, I am told it has been years since your last thrashing.”
Conor threw back his head with a shout of laughter, no doubt stunning many in the gathering. “Audacious wench! We shall see who receives the thrashing. Defend yourself!”
Erika expected him to move first and was not disappointed. But the blow, designed to knock the blade from her hand, wasn’t nearly as heavy as she’d anticipated. She blocked it easily and sent it back to him, with heavier weight.
He parried, understanding. Erika was showing him she could give as good as she received, or even better. He remembered the last time they had crossed swords, remembered that her skill was true and to be respected. He would be ware, but since their duel was not to the death, he would enjoy himself.
When Conor pressed the attack, Erika nearly laughed with glee. Finally he treated her as a warrior and not a woman with a sword. He was proving himself quite a challenge, especially to someone who defended herself almost daily for the last seven years. It was a challenge she would meet and win. For now, she would enjoy herself until it was time to give the Devil his due.
Back and forth they went, the Angel and the Devil. The bards would sing of it for years to come, how two elemental forces contrived for dominion over each other. The worst of it was their smiles. Neither stopped grinning at the other, no matter how fiercely their blades clashed. They smiled at each other with every feint, laughed outright at every parry. It was, they would say, the strangest courtship ever known, but completely appropriate for the two warriors.
No one was sure quite what happened, and arguments would rage over meals for months afterward. One moment Conor was pressing his attack against Erika and the next he was toppling over backward, Erika falling with him. Both swords went flying, glinting in deadly arcs and causing the crowd to scatter lest they be impaled.
For one electrified moment all was still. Then like a wave, people rushed forward.
Conor gave a diligent fight for breath, for Erika’s knee was perilously close to that most sensitive of places. She stared down at him, worry darkening her eyes. “Conor?” She patted his cheek once, then harder. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
He groaned. “I beg you to move your knee, unless ’tis your intent to emasculate me. And what right have you to be concerned with my health after you tripped me?”
That got Erika off him quick enough, though her knee in his stomach forced another groan from him. “I tripped you?” she repeated, ire making her accent thick. “I did no such thing. ’Twas you who tripped me!”
Ardan was at Conor’s side, helping him to his feet. He brushed the older man away. “Are you insulting me, woman?” he demanded, causing more than a few people to back away.
Erika leaned towards him, her chin jutting out defiantly. More people stepped back. “If you ask whether or not I question your veracity, you have the right of it!”
Niall was the only one brave enough to step between the two. “Arguing like husband and wife, and not yet married.” He laughed heartily. “Not an auspicious beginning, but one keeping in character, ’tis certain.”
“I’ll not be married to this lout, not unless I—” Erika’s hot rejoinder squeezed off with a gasp. “He is awarded the victory?”
The brehon stepped forward, standing safely between Ardan and Olan. “Your blade flew first.”
“Of course you saw my blade fly—I wanted to teach the man a lesson, not cut him in half. But he let go his own blade first when he tripped over his own feet!”
“Do you claim I am cumbrous as well as a liar?” Conor’s query was soft and widened the circle around them even further.
Heat rushed into Erika’s face, clouding her vision as she reached for her brother’s sword. “As sure as a true arrow finds its target, you—”
“Erika!” Olan’s voice cracked like a whip, halting her forward progress. His hands settled on her shoulders. “Look.”
She allowed herself to be turned and saw her and Conor’s swords. Both swords were embedded in the grass, hers some distance away and vertical, Conor’s nearby and at an angle. Her blade could not have been upright unless she released it while upright, just as Conor’s had to have been thrown as he was falling.
“Your blade arced several times before it landed,” Olan informed her. “Conor’s did not.”
Olan was right. She had released her blade first, and in so doing, had forfeited her freedom to the Devil of Dunlough.
“Erika.”
She turned at the sound of Conor’s voice. His expression was a mirror of what she felt, disappointment. “I am sorry. This isn’t how I wished it to end. If you wish it, we’ll fight again.”
“No.” She shook her head to emphasize her words. “The Norns have decided, and it is done. I will marry you.” She turned away. “I would have married you regardless.”
“You look as if you’ve been struck on the head,” Niall observed to Conor as they watched Erika walk away, Fionnuala and Gwynna following. “What did she say to you?”
“You would not believe it. I am not sure I believe it. But there will be a wedding today.”
“I wish you well, and luck with my sister.” Olan clapped him on the back as the crowd cheered around them. “You will need it.”
“Do not think you are done,” Conor retorted. “We’ll go into this madness together. There will be two weddings this day.”
Niall shouted with laughter. “This calls for ale, and plenty of it!”
Chapter Eighteen
Erika discovered that wine eased her trepidation considerably. One cup as Múireann hurried her through a steaming bath, still another as she dried her hair by the fire. By the time she slipped into a deep violet gown of linen with bell-shaped sleeves, and the sleeveless overcoat of lavender, gray and green, she was almost giddy.
Almost.
Fionnuala and her maid joined her as Múireann fastened a heavy silver girdle low on her hips
. “You are a sight,” the Irishwoman remarked, taking a chair before the hearth and availing herself of the wine. “I can see why Conor is so taken with you.”
“Conor taken with me?” Erika could scarce believe it. She looked at the woman through a mass of hair. “Surely you jest with me.”
“I do not.” She sipped her wine. “Even now, songs are being composed about the beautiful Angel who dared challenge the Devil.”
The idea of bards singing about her alarmed and pleased Erika simultaneously. “I am not beautiful,” she insisted. “And Conor is not taken with me. That is not why he weds me.”
“Then why does he?”
“What reason does a man want a woman for wife? The Devil of Dunlough wants the sons the Angel of Death can give him.”
“I’ve no doubt of that, but perhaps there’s more.” Fionnuala’s maid put a bowl on the table before her, and she placed the tips of her fingers inside. “Perhaps it is also because you are the only woman besides myself and his sister who can see past Conor’s scar to the man beneath.”
Erika frowned as Múireann finished her hair. “I am well and done with this talk of no one being able to gaze upon Conor. He is a handsome man.”
The other woman smiled knowingly over the rim of her cup. “Do you think so?”
“He needs to smile more, to be sure, and he can be quite intimidating. Not that I am intimidated by him,” she hastened to add, “but if he did not go about like a thunderstorm about to be loosed, he would certainly be more pleasing to others.”
“So you are pleased with your choice of a husband?”
“Forgive me, I did not realize I was given a choice.”
Fionnuala accepted a cloth from her maid. “Leave us.” When the two maidservants were gone, she turned to Erika and said, “Most women in Ireland do not have a choice, Erika Silverhair. You have been more blessed than most women of our time, for you have decided your own way.”
“Have I?”
“You didn’t battle Conor a second time, did you now?”
“It would not have been the honorable thing to do,” Erika said, the excuse sounding thin to her. But the other woman was right, and she knew it. “Long ago, I vowed to only marry he who could defeat me in battle. A vow has been made. A vow will be kept.”
Fionnuala rose to her feet, lifted the bowl and crossed to where Erika sat. “This is ruam. It is a stain made from berries that we use to color our fingers and lips for special occasions.”
She lifted Erika’s hands, gave them a gentle squeeze and placed them in the bowl. “I know that much has happened in your life, more than you may wish to share with a stranger,” the older woman said. “Do not worry—you may tell me your tale in your own good time, perhaps when you visit me at Dun Lief.”
Removing Erika’s hands from the bowl, Fionnuala patted them dry with a soft cloth. “As I said, I do not know you, but I do know Conor. He may seem a harsh, forbidding man, but his circumstances have not been gentle to him.”
“I do not consider him forbidding, but I do understand.”
The other woman’s smile was warm. “And I can tell you, today is the first time I have seen him smile or heard him laugh in almost three years. For that alone, I will be forever indebted to you.”
Discomfited by Fionnuala’s words, Erika stared down at her red-tipped fingers. She found it difficult to believe that she was the cause, but she knew that Conor’s demeanor was greatly improved compared to their first meeting. “My lady…”
“Fionnuala. We are equals.”
Erika inclined her head in acknowledgment. “I am honored by your words, but I cannot credit them. Conor was…understandably less than courteous when first we met. We both were. Once we ceased wanting to kill one another, it is natural that his mood lightened.”
To her surprise, the red-haired woman laughed. It was a rich, booming sound, full of life and warmth. Erika couldn’t help but smile in return.
“I have no doubt that you and Conor will do well together, perhaps in spite of yourselves,” Fionnuala finally said, carefully drying her eyes. “It will not be easy—Irishmen are stubborn, wild men. Niall and I did not mesh well at all in our first days. As true as rain is wet, I hated him.”
“You hated your husband?” Erika had seen the way the couple regarded one another and could not believe there had ever been any animosity between them.
“Ours was an arranged marriage, melding two powerful families. He is a decade older and was set in his ways even then. It took long months to bend him to my will. But bend him I did. And so will you, with Conor.”
Erika snorted her skepticism at that, but Fionnuala brushed it aside. “Mark my words. Be honest to yourself, and to him. You will have a long, blessed life together.”
There was a knock at the door then Múireann entered, her eyes round. “My lady, the tigerna bade me bring you this.”
Hands trembling, the maidservant stepped forward and deposited a small, elaborate casket in Erika’s hands. Curiosity lifting her brows, Erika turned to the table, set the box atop it, then lifted the lid.
Purple caught the light and fractured it into a million shards. Inside the casket, on a folded swath of gray silk, lay the most beautiful neck-chain she had ever beheld. The links were of twisted strands of silver highlighted with thin threads of gold. They coiled like plaits, ending in clasps that cupped the bale of the silver pendant that held the massive amethyst crystal.
“Sweet Freyja.”
Breath bated, Erika lifted the beautiful pendant from its display. Substantial and cool in her hands, the purple quartz swung freely in the light, mesmerizing her. The bauble was like a living thing in her hands, power and beauty and grace, ferocity and brilliance and ice, all combined.
It was Fionnuala who fastened the heavy silver clasp, settling the neck-chain onto her collarbones. The older woman stepped back, her eyes wide with awe. “You were beautiful before. You are stunning now. It is perfect for you, Erika. Perfect.”
Erika’s hands fluttered against her collarbone as Múireann held the bronze mirror so that she could view her reflection. She had never owned anything so lovely. That Conor had gifted it to her made something thrum deep inside her. Was she so mistaken about the man who would be her husband? Could he care for her?
She was prevented from articulating her thoughts by Gwynna’s arrival, with the priest and Fionnuala’s maid behind. “Erika, Abbot Brochadh has come to hear our confessions before we pledge our troth.”
Erika privately liked the dun’s priest, though she rarely saw the man and knew he was not enamored of her. His personality was pleasant and the manner in which he helped the people of Dunlough pleased her.
The russet-haired man took the carved chair near the hearth that Múireann offered, and the goblet of wine Fionnuala’s maid handed him. Fionnuala went first, as befitted her rank, and then Gwynna.
It came Erika’s turn. Brochadh gave her a genuine, if somewhat wary, smile. “Shall we begin, my lady?”
With a nod and a deep breath, Erika launched into her confession.
Her voice was quiet and matter-of-fact as she recounted every man she had killed since choosing the warrior’s way at fourteen. Eyes fixed on the priest, Erika was nonetheless aware of the horror Gwynna and Fionnuala felt with each word that left her lips. It saddened her that their regard for her might be tarnished, but she had done what she had to do, and most of the men had needed killing. Punishing at the very least.
An hour and two glasses of wine later, her confession was done. It was some moments before Brochadh could find his voice. “Do you enjoy being the Angel of Death?”
“I take no joy in killing. It is what was given to me to do, and I have done it well. If I can prevent horror by my presence or my name, then that is a good thing. It is the same for the Devil of Dunlough.”
Brochadh nodded, as if her words were expected. “And do you believe the tigerna to be a capable man, able to defend his people and his tuath?”
Erika pause
d. There was something in the careful wording of the priest’s questions that puzzled her. “There has never been a question of that, not to me,” she finally said.
“If you believe him capable of protecting his people and his home, how much more will he protect his wife, the mother of his heirs?”
Too late Erika saw the trap opening before her. Must be the wine, making her addled. “You wish for me to put away my sword.”
It was not a question, but Brochadh answered her. “It is not seemly for a woman of rank to go into battle, or even to touch an instrument of death. The Church forbids it.”
Erika thought about that for a moment. She was still too Nordic, too Viking, to ponder the ramifications of the Church. How could God damn her for being what she was, and doing good with it?
Brochadh gathered her hands in his. “I listened to you, my lady. I know you take sorrow in killing. I also know you did not have much in the way of choice. Now you do.”
Yearning pulled at her, sweet and strong. Putting away her sword…it was the secret dream buried in her hearts of hearts, a dream she never believed would come to light. Doing battle had been a part of her for so long, she did not know anything else.
“Has Conor asked this of me?”
“Nay, my lady, the tigerna has not asked this,” he said, his eyes lowered.
The priest seemed so distressed that Erika longed to cheer him. “I will make a vow, that you will not see me draw a sword. Will this satisfy you and the Church?”
“Of a certain,” he replied, vastly cheered. “Thank you, my lady. Your new path will not be regrettable, I promise you.” He left.
Fionnuala smiled serenely. “I noticed that you neglected to mention that you would not draw a sword when Brochadh wasn’t looking.”
A shrug lifted Erika’s shoulders. “If the priest did not notice the oversight, far be it from me to point out the faults of a holy man.”
Gwynna’s laughter echoed theirs. “You will be more than a match for my brother, Erika. I welcome you as my sister.”
Devil's Angel Page 15