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No. Better to appear that she was angry with him. Then he would eat, if for no other reason than to defy her.
‘For the love of Saint Brigid, how do you think you’ll ever finish this carving if you don’t eat?’ Indignant, Iseult grasped one of the iron cauldrons from near the hearth and strode outside. She filled the pot with water and hauled it back in.
The slave blocked her path. His eyes studied hers a moment, and the intense darkness of them caught her attention. Bruises and cuts lined his cheeks, and his jaw held a dark swelling. Beneath the unkempt appearance was a startlingly handsome man. Not the noble looks of Davin, but features more brutal and arresting.
‘I don’t take things that do not belong to me.’ His hands curled over the iron handle, brushing against her as he took the pot from her. Iseult nearly jerked backwards at the contact.
What in the name of heaven was the matter with her? Her cheeks warmed as he set the cauldron over the fire. She busied herself with peeling vegetables from the supplies she’d brought. It kept her from having to meet his gaze.
‘I promised Davin I’d stay for an hour,’ she said, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit and stare. You’ll have to start carving now. After I’ve finished cooking, I’m leaving.’
She found a cloth-wrapped package of mutton inside her bag and chopped the meat, adding it to the water. A lock of hair fell forwards, and she brushed it aside.
All of her frustration and fury seemed to pour out of her. It had been another wasted day, with no news of her son. She wanted to curl up on her pallet and indulge herself in a fit of weeping. Instead, she had to endure the company of this man.
‘You aren’t flattered that your betrothed wants this carving?’ he asked.
A slight scratching noise sounded from behind her.
‘No. I’ve better things to do.’ She rather be with Muirne and the children, helping to tell the boys stories. Anything to occupy herself and keep her from thinking about Aidan.
When she’d finished setting the ingredients in the stew, she turned back. He hadn’t touched the block of wood. Instead, he was using a piece of charcoal to sketch a drawing onto a flat board.
‘What are you doing?’
‘As you’ve said, you have better things to do. I’ll capture your image on the board and carve it later.’ His hands moved rapidly, and Iseult drew nearer to see what he’d done.
He lifted the board away, hiding it from her view. ‘Not yet,’ was all he said.
‘You’ve probably drawn me with two noses and three chins,’ she remarked.
A flicker of amusement tilted at his mouth. ‘No. But I thought of drawing horns and a forked tongue.’
Iseult sobered, stirring the pot of stew. She wasn’t at all that sort of woman. Sweet-natured, Davin had called her.
But around this man, she was transforming into a shrew.
Instead of trying to come up with a swift retort, she stared at the pot of stew and imagined adding henbane to it. Then she realised that she’d forgotten any seasonings. And she’d put the vegetables in too soon.
As time crept onward, the peas grew mushy, and the meat tougher. She bit her tongue, knowing she was a miserable cook. Part of her thought it served him right, while the other part was ashamed at her lack of skills. What kind of a wife would she make for Davin?
Finally, she ladled a wooden bowl full of the stew and found a spoon for him to use. Kieran eyed the pitiful mashed vegetables and the meat boiled to death.
‘Eat,’ she ordered. ‘I won’t have you dropping dead when I’ve gone to this trouble.’
It was growing more difficult to uphold her bravado. She’d done a terrible job of cooking, but he made no remark on its lack of flavour, eating it slowly.
‘What will you do next?’ she asked when he’d finished the meal and set the bowl aside.
‘I’ll draw your face onto the wood and do a stop cut with this knife.’ He held up a short blade, and the way he held it struck Iseult like a man ready for battle. With the cuts and bruises upon his face, she could imagine him riding from the field, battle cries resounding from his lips.
After Kieran set down the blade, he picked up the charcoal and board again. His gaze travelled over her face and down her body. He drew more slowly, watching her as though he could see deep within her.
Her heart pulsed beneath her skin. She considered calling the guard inside. Being alone with the slave made her wary.
Abruptly, Kieran shifted the rhythm. His hands moved rapidly with smooth strokes, as though he were capturing her without even thinking. She noticed several scars along his hands, like blade marks from battle.
‘You were not a slave before this, were you?’she predicted.
He shrugged, casting a brief glance at her before turning back to the drawing.
‘You’re too confident to be a slave,’ she continued, ‘and too arrogant for a woodcarver.’ She doubted if he were a king, but possibly a warrior or a chieftain’s son.
‘It doesn’t matter what I was before,’ he said, setting the board aside. The formidable expression on his face warned her not to ask any more questions. ‘Only what I am now.’
She reached out to take the bowl and spoon, and a glint of trouble sparked in his eyes. Without realising it, she found herself studying the lean angles of his face, the harsh jaw that cut lines down to a tight mouth.
He disconcerted her, and yet she could not stop staring at him. Her body shivered, growing cold as he answered the gaze with soulless eyes. Quickly, Iseult changed the subject. ‘Do you miss your family?’
‘I don’t think of them any more.’ The bitterness in his tone voiced another warning. ‘They have their lives, and I have mine.’
She shivered at the utter bleakness of such a life. Without meaning to, her thoughts went back to Aidan. Ever since he had been stolen away, there was an emptiness inside her that could not be filled. She gripped her arms, as if to force the sadness away.
‘How did you end up a slave?’
He stopped drawing and set the board aside. ‘We’ve finished for tonight.’
He walked past her and lifted the hide flap in a wordless command to leave. Iseult paused before the door. In that fraction of a second, her gaze drew to his. He was staring at her, as though she had cut off the air to his lungs. Her skin warmed, and when she looked at him, it was as though she had become the slave and he the conqueror.
Without looking back, she stumbled into the night.
Chapter Four
‘Kieran!’his brother pleaded. The men dragged Egan to the edge of the wooden palisade and pulled back his brother’s neck. With a casual glance to Kieran, they drew the blade across Egan’s throat.
His brother never made a sound. A cry tore from Kieran’s lungs when the boy’s body struck the ground. The raiders never looked back, but stepped over Egan as if he were nothing but an inconvenience.
Kieran sat up from the dream, his hands shaking. Sweat poured over his brow, and he buried his face in his hands. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was. The early morning light filtered through the crevices below the hide door. He ran his hands through his hair, staggering to his feet.
He went outside, inhaling sharp bursts of air, as if it could expel the nightmare. He’d lived with the memory for several moons now, and he doubted if it would ever leave.
In the cool morning stillness, he saw other slaves and members of the fudir tending the fields. He should have been among them. Hard labour was what he deserved, not a chance to do something he loved.
With the wood, he could transform the fibres into something almost alive. Like a god, he shaped and moulded his creations. It wasn’t right that he was interested in the work, even if it did involve a beautiful woman.
In the distance, a purple and rose-tinged sunrise emerged from the east. Kieran moved towards an animal trough, dipping his hands in the water and splashing it over his face. Though Davin had kept his word, removing the guards from his doorway, he sensed the others watching him.
One took a few steps forward. With a shaved head and a long red beard, the man had an arrogant swagger to him. ‘You, there. Slave,’ he called. ‘Bring us some water.’The man smirked at his companion, and Kieran’s knuckles curled over the trough.
In the past, no man would have dared to command him. But these tribesmen expected him to jump to their orders, like a dog. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the men and sent them a warning look.
He wasn’t in the habit of obedience.
This is your penance, his mind insisted. Do as they command.
No. These men weren’t his master. They wanted to exert their power over him, demeaning him. Although he would accept whatever tasks Davin gave, he wouldn’t let these men gain the upper hand.
Against his better judgement, Kieran turned his back and returned to his hut. No doubt they would run off to Davin and complain. There would be repercussions, but he didn’t care. He might choose to endure the slavery for a time, but it didn’t mean he would bow down before every man.
He sat down with the door open, allowing the natural light inside. The carving tools rested on the table wrapped in leather, just where he’d laid them. His sketches of Iseult, along with the yew, awaited his attention.
He uncovered the carving tools from the protective leather. His thumb brushed the edge of a knife, judging its sharpness.
The red-bearded man shadowed his doorway, fists clenched. ‘I ordered you to bring me water, slave.’
‘Did you?’ Kieran anticipated the rush of a fight and his hand curved over the hilt of a blade. His own height rivalled the other man’s, making him an equal opponent. ‘I’m not your slave, am I?’
‘Davin will hear of your disobedience,’ the man asserted. ‘And I’ve a mind to punish you for it.’
Just try it.
Kieran lifted his knife, his body poised in a defensive position. He might have lost his former strength, but he knew how to wield a blade. ‘Will you, now?’ Slicing the weapon through the air, he invited, ‘Well, then, let’s see it.’
A growl emitted from the man’s throat, and he charged Kieran, aiming for his wrist. Kieran turned sideways, cutting a thin slash across the man’s forearm. Nothing serious, but an insult nevertheless.
Energy pumped through him, and he revelled in the chance to use his former skills. Long ago, he’d been one of the best fighters in their tribe. His muscles remembered how to move, though his body cried out with the pain of it. His opponent picked up the iron cauldron, sloshing its contents at him.
Kieran dodged the splash of vegetables and meat, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘Hungry, are you?’He kicked the slab of overcooked mutton towards the man. ‘Take what you’d like and get out.’
‘I’ll make you eat the dirt, first.’Before Kieran could move, the bearded man seized his wrist and struck the raw wounds on Kieran’s back. Pain shot through him, and Kieran was forced to drop the knife. He aimed a kick at the man’s groin, twisting to avoid a punch.
‘Enough of this,’ a man’s voice interrupted. Davin strode into the hut, stepping between them. To the redbearded man, he ordered, ‘Cearul, release him.’
Sullen and grim, the man obeyed. Kieran rubbed his wrist, angry that Davin had interfered. He could have finished the fight.
‘He refused our orders, Davin,’ Cearul claimed. ‘He was supposed to bring us water.’
‘I have set Kieran a more important task,’ Davin said. ‘When he has finished with that, then perhaps he can attend to other needs. For now, I would suggest you return to your own duties. The planting is not yet finished, I believe.’
Cearul reddened, and though he glared at Kieran, he nodded. A moment later, he departed.
‘I want to see the work you completed last night,’ Davin said. All traces of amicability were gone.
‘You didn’t have to stop the fight.’
‘I didn’t want you killing any of my men. It might have been a fight to you, but not to them.’Davin crossed his arms, pinning him with a dark glance.
Kieran forced himself to let it go. ‘My drawings are there.’He pointed to the board he’d left on the table. ‘I’ll begin working on the carving this evening.’
Davin lifted the board, revealing nothing of what he thought. ‘I’ll send her to you again tonight. And I want to see the completed carving within a sennight.’
Kieran supposed it could be done, if he worked every spare minute upon it. But the level of detail he wanted would require painstaking work. He needed more subtle tools than these, gouges with narrow ridges and steeper angles.
‘A fortnight would be more reasonable,’ he bargained. ‘And these tools are not of the best quality.’
‘A sennight,’ Davin repeated. ‘If you are a competent woodcarver, you’ll manage even without the tools.’ He returned to the doorway. ‘I’ll order the others to leave you alone, but I’d advise you not to leave the hut without an escort. And if I find that you insult or endanger Iseult in any way, you’ll answer to me for it.’ He departed, leaving the door open.
Davin’s warning was not an idle threat. Kieran suspected the man would have no qualms about killing him, were Iseult threatened. He could respect a man for protecting his betrothed. He’d have done the same once, had anyone bothered Branna.
At the thought of her name, his gut soured. With auburn hair and laughing dark eyes, he well remembered the feel of holding her in his arms. And now Branna embraced her new husband, the way she had once welcomed him.
He forced the vision away and stared down at the drawing he’d done last night. He’d caught Iseult thinking of someone, her face wistful and filled with longing. He’d also drawn her with flashing anger, her eyes sparking hatred. She intrigued him, with her beauty and spirit.
He cleaned up the fallen meat and vegetables, wondering why Iseult had troubled to make a meal for him. No one had done anything like that in a long while. She didn’t like him; he could see it in her eyes.
Kieran picked up the yew and began tracing the outline of her face upon the wood. Within moments, he lost himself in the work, cutting out the background with an iron gouge. The scent of freshly cut wood mingled with the morning air, and he took comfort from it. The tools cut into the creamy sapwood, etching out details.
When at last he looked up, it was mid-morning. He saw that someone had left a bag of supplies just outside the door. He found bread inside and tore off a piece, enjoying the taste of the fresh grain.
Near the ringfort entrance, he saw Iseult leading a mare inside. Her face was pale, and her cheeks were wet as though she’d been weeping. Unbidden came the urge to find out what had happened.
It’s none of your affair, his conscience warned. But for a woman about to marry, he’d never seen anyone look so unhappy.
Iseult pounded a mass of clay, water spattering all over the brown léine she wore. She didn’t care. She released tears, digging her fingers into the clay as though she could strangle the unknown men who had taken her son.
‘I must speak with you.’
She lifted her gaze and saw Davin standing before her. His sober expression promised nothing but grim news. ‘What is it?’
‘More raids. Father sent men to scout out what was happening. It may be the Norsemen again.’
Iseult left the fallen mass of clay and reached for a cloth to dry her hands. She supposed she should be frightened, but the stories of the Lochlannachs she’d heard seemed more like exaggerated myths, stretched to make a good tale. ‘How do you know it’s them?’
‘We know their ships,’he reminded her. ‘And for that reason, I don’t want you leaving the ringfort again. Not until we know what’s happening.’
Stay here? Iseult dismissed the idea. After her failed search today, she would have to journey further. ‘I’m going to start searching inland,’ she said. ‘No one has seen Aidan on the peninsula, and it’s time to try elsewhere.’
She saw no danger in travelling away from the coast. It might take a few days, but she could bring supplies and speak to the different tribes.
Davin shook his head. ‘Only after we’ve determined it’s safe. Wait a few weeks longer, and I’ll go with you. After our wedding,’ he promised.
Iseult shook her head in denial. ‘It’s been almost a year, Davin. If I wait too long, I won’t know Aidan any more. Even now, I can hardly remember his face.’ The familiar pain of loss was a constant ache, mingled with her own guilt for not protecting him well enough.
‘I know you’ll never forget him,’Davin said, stroking her hair. ‘But perhaps it’s time to let this go.’
‘You’re asking me to abandon my son.’The thought was like a blade to her wrists. How could he even think of it?
‘It’s hurting you, and I don’t want to see your pain any more.’ His arms moved around her waist, his hands caressing her spine.
