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He crouched by the hearth, eyeing her. ‘You said your mother was a healer. What would she have done for you?’
‘Raspberry-leaf tea, I suppose. Or willow bark, if the fever got too hot.’
He shrugged. ‘I saw neither when I was out getting water. I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She would find them herself, if the bleeding continued. It seemed to be lessening.
Trahern stopped arranging the wood for a moment. The firelight gleamed against his head, and she wondered why he’d shaved his hair and beard. The clothing he wore was hardly more than a slave would wear, as though he cared nothing for his appearance.
He grieved for Ciara, she realised. He’d loved her.
Morren studied him, not understanding how such a fierce, hot-tempered man could stay at her side all night telling stories. Amidst the smothering fever, she’d heard his deep voice. It had reached within her, giving her something to hold on to. She let her gaze fall over his face, noticing the worn lines and exhaustion. He hadn’t slept at all, using the captivating tale to ease her pain. And something within her was grateful for it.
‘Where are the others?’ he asked. ‘Your kinsmen?’
‘Jilleen and I have no one else. Our parents are both dead.’
He returned to her bedside, holding out the food once more. ‘How long have you been living here?’
She took one of the apples, with no true intent of eating it. ‘Since the attack happened, in early summer.’
‘And you’ve been here alone since then?’
‘Yes.’ Morren’s gaze fixed upon his. ‘I don’t know how many of the Ó Reillys are left.’ The only person she’d wanted near her, after that night, was Jilleen. She hadn’t returned to the cashel after they’d fled, nor to St Michael’s Abbey. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know of her shame.
‘After we find your sister, you should stay at Glen Omrigh,’ Trahern said quietly. ‘It isn’t right for the two of you to be alone.’
She rolled the apple between her palms, not wanting to think about the future. Enduring each hour at a time was all she could manage. ‘I’ll find a place for us. Somewhere.’
He studied her, as if trying to ascertain her worth. ‘Do you know enough of your mother’s healing? Your skill would hold great value with another clan.’
She shook her head. ‘I know the plants and trees and their uses. But I’m not a healer.’ More often than not, her kinsmen had asked for her guidance when the crops were failing. Her talent lay in making things grow.
Outside, the wind shifted through the trees. Morren huddled beneath the coverlet, sensing what was to come. A change in the weather was imminent.
‘You should put on your cloak,’ she advised. ‘It’s going to rain.’
As if in answer to her prediction, she heard the soft spattering of droplets. Minutes later, the thatched roof began leaking, the water puddling upon the earthen floor, transforming it into mud. Trahern grimaced and lifted up his cloak to shield his head from the water. The rain felt cool upon her face, easing the fever.
‘Take the other end of this,’ Trahern said, holding out his cloak. ‘We’ll share the shelter until it stops.’
She made no move to take it. ‘I don’t mind the wetness.’
‘It’s not good for you. You’ll catch a chill and get even weaker than you already are.’ He sat down beside her on the bed, offering her the other end.
Morren scooted far away from him. Trahern’s head towered over her, making her feel uncomfortable.
‘I’m not planning to touch you,’ he said gruffly. ‘There’s no harm in both of us using the cloak for shelter.’
Without waiting for her argument, he tossed the end over her head. She lifted the wool from her face, shielding her head from the rain.
The heavy cloak held his scent, masculine and safe. She could feel the heat of his body within the cloth, and her cheeks warmed from more than the fever.
Trahern wasn’t looking at her, but he stared at the fire sputtering on the hearth. Rain dampened his face, and she saw the light stubble of beard upon his face.
She’d thought him handsome before, when his dark hair had touched his shoulders, his beard masking his features.
Now, he’d stripped away all traces of that man. Cold and hardened, he wasn’t the same at all. And yet, he’d stayed up all night at her side. He hadn’t abandoned her, not once. It wasn’t the demeanour of a monster, but of a man she didn’t understand.
Morren shivered, thinking of his devotion to Ciara. It was as if no other woman in the world had existed. Certainly, he hadn’t noticed her.
‘I remember when you first came to our cashel last year,’ she said. ‘You stayed up all night, telling your stories.’
He sobered, and she wondered if she shouldn’t have spoken. ‘I used to be a bard, yes.’
‘And you stayed with us all winter long. Because of Ciara?’
He gave a nod. Drawing his knees up, he discarded the cloak and sat up. She noticed his bare feet and wondered what had happened to his shoes.
‘Get some sleep, Morren. If you’re well enough, we’ll find Jilleen in the morning.’ Trahern laid down again, drawing the cloak over both of them. In his eyes, she saw his own exhaustion. He hadn’t slept in two days.
When he caught her staring, he added, ‘I promise, I won’t touch you.’
Strangely, she believed him. He had no interest whatsoever in her, and she felt herself relaxing in his presence.
‘You should sleep, as well,’ she offered. ‘It was my fault that your rest was disturbed last night.’
He cast a wary look. ‘You needed someone to watch over you. And there’s no threat from me, I promise.’
When she rolled to the other side of the bed with his cloak shielding her hair, the anxiety that clenched her nerves tight seemed to soften.
Perhaps he really could keep her safe.
Trahern heard the sound of muffled weeping, a few hours before dawn. Morren remained with her back to him, the cloak draped over her. Her shoulders trembled, and his body tensed.
‘Morren?’ he whispered. ‘Are you in pain?’
She remained far away from him, but her sobs grew muffled. ‘A bad dream. That’s all.’
He didn’t know what to say. Words were meaningless after what she’d suffered. It was no wonder nightmares bothered her.
‘And your fever?’
She rolled over to look at him. Her wheat-coloured hair hung against her face, and she looked as though she’d endured a gruelling night. ‘It’s better.’ He didn’t believe her and reached out to touch her forehead.
Morren cowered from him, and he let his hand fall away. A tightness formed within him, that she was unable to bear even a simple touch.
‘I’ll be all right,’ she insisted. ‘We need to find Jilleen today.’
Though her colour had improved, he wanted her to remain abed for at least another day. She might worsen if she pushed herself too hard. ‘I know you’re feeling better, but I’d rather you stayed here. I’ll leave you with food, water and firewood before I search for your sister.’
Morren sent him a steady look. ‘If you go without me, I’ll follow you as soon as you’ve left. She’s my sister, and I need to know that she’s safe.’ With a firm stubbornness, she raised her chin and began to sit up. ‘I’m going to search for her. With or without you.’
Trahern sat up on his side of the bed, suddenly realising that his feet were beneath the sheet. Some time in the middle of the night, Morren had covered them. He hadn’t expected the kindness.
He got up and returned to the bundle of clothing he’d found earlier. From within it, he found an overdress. The colours were dull, the wool coarse and prickly, but the material would keep her warm.
Once he helped Morren to find her sister, he would bring them somewhere safe. Perhaps to another clan, if the Ó Reillys hadn’t yet rebuilt their cashel.
A cold fury spread through his veins once more, as he imagined the devastating attack the Ó Reillys must have suffered. He simply couldn’t understand why the Lochlannach had tried to destroy an entire clan. A cattle raid was one matter, but this killing went beyond all else.
He needed to understand why. And after he’d found his enemies, he vowed to avenge Ciara’s death and bring both Morren and Jilleen to safety.
Picking up his pouch of supplies, Trahern used his knife to slice through the leather. He made crude shoes out of the material, insulating them with straw. He gave Morren one set and offered the laces from his tunic to tie them on. He nodded at his cloak. ‘Wear that. You’ll need it to stay warm.’
‘It’s too cold,’ she argued. ‘You’ll need to use it yourself. And I can use the cloak that was on the bed.’
‘Take both of them. You need to stay warm more than I do.’ When she was about to protest, Trahern picked up the garment and tossed it to her. If he had to fasten it himself, he’d make her wear it.
‘St Michael’s Abbey lies a few miles to the west,’ he continued. ‘We’ll stop there to rest.’
‘There’s no need to stop on my behalf.’ Morren eased to the end of the bed and stood. The woollen clothing hung against her thin body, and Trahern knew in his gut that she would never make it to Glen Omrigh. For that matter, he wasn’t certain she would reach the abbey without collapsing.
He suspected she would push herself beyond all endurance to help her sister. He couldn’t blame her for it. For his own brothers, he’d do the same. It didn’t matter how far or how weakened he was. If a family member needed him, he’d drag his body halfway across Éireann.
‘I’ll arrange to borrow horses from the monks,’ he said, concealing his irritation about losing his own mount, Barra. With luck, he’d get the horse back. ‘That will make it easier on you.’
She seemed to accept it, and started towards the door. Trahern stopped her by offering her a cup of water and food. ‘You’re not leaving until you’ve finished this.’ Though the dried meat wasn’t appetising in the least, the fare was better than nothing. After today, he’d have to hunt for more.
Morren drank and nibbled at the venison. Though she didn’t eat enough, in his opinion, at least it was a start. When they’d finished, he walked alongside her. ‘If you start to feel weak, tell me. We’ll stop and you can rest.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Morren insisted.
Trahern wanted to take her hand, to offer her support, but he knew she’d refuse. They travelled downhill, and he could see her breath in the cold autumn air. Morren stepped carefully through the fallen leaves, grasping at tree trunks for balance.
Her pallor matched the grey sky, and more than once she stumbled. When they reached the edge of the forest, where he’d made his camp two nights earlier, she looked ready to collapse.
‘Do you want to go on?’ he asked.
‘I’ve no choice.’
Her answer didn’t suit him at all. Without asking, he lifted her into his arms. ‘Pretend you’re walking.’
She looked panicked and struggled to get away from him. ‘Put me down.’
‘If I do, you’ll faint. And we’ll travel faster this way.’ They would have to stop at St Michael’s. Already he’d abandoned the idea of travelling to Glen Omrigh. There was no chance Morren could make the journey.
He stopped walking when he saw the tension in her body. ‘I know you don’t want me to carry you. But if you can endure this for another hour, we’ll be at the abbey.’
Her gaze wouldn’t meet his, but she didn’t protest again. Fear was etched within her posture, in the way she tried to distance herself.
She weighed hardly anything, and Trahern found that it was no hardship at all to carry her. How any man could attack a woman as vulnerable as Morren was beyond his comprehension.
She had a face that most men wouldn’t notice at first, soft, with unremarkable features. But her blue eyes surprised him. Although they were weary, there was strength and determination in them, despite her physical weakness.
‘Was the abbey attacked by the Lochlannach?’ he asked. If there were other threats lingering, he needed to know of them.
‘As far as I know, our cashel was the only victim.’ Morren turned her gaze to the horizon where the rolling hills merged into the mountains. ‘I still don’t understand why we were attacked. We’ve lived in peace among the Lochlannach for so long. Some of our women married among the Norse.’
Trahern walked through the tall grasses, holding Morren close. She couldn’t seem to relax, though he’d done nothing to threaten her.
‘Tell me the rest of the story,’ she asked quietly. ‘About Dagda and Eithne.’
It was natural to slip into the tale, spinning a distraction that both of them needed. Trahern continued where he’d left off, and in the midst of his storytelling, the strained tension in her body seemed to relax.
‘The god Dagda wanted to grant his son a piece of land, when Oengus grew to manhood. But the land that Dagda wished to offer was held by a man named Elcmar. Oengus did not want to kill Elcmar, and so it was that he and his men attacked during the celebration of Samhain.
‘When Oengus conquered Elcmar, he asked to rule the land, for one day and a single night. Afterwards, both would go to Dagda and ask who should rightfully possess the land.’
Though Morren remained silent, he saw her face softening as he wove the story. Her lips tilted upwards, when he spoke of Oengus’s trickery.
‘When both men came to Dagda, the god proclaimed that it now rightfully belonged to Oengus. For Samhain is a feast where time holds no meaning. And ruling it for a day and a night during that time of celebration is to rule it for eternity.’
When he’d finished the story, the stone walls of St Michael’s emerged over the horizon, less than a mile away. Trahern set Morren down, asking, ‘Do you want to walk the rest of the distance, or shall I carry you?’ He doubted she’d want to appear like an invalid in front of the monks, but if she lacked the strength, it was no hardship to continue the rest of the way.
‘I’ll walk,’ she answered.
Made of stone, the abbey stretched high above the landscape, flanked by a round tower. Arched windows, as tall as an ordinary man, encircled the structure, but he could not see any of the brethren at first. At the bottom of the hill, a silver strand of water wove through the countryside.
Morren held the edges of her cloak around her body, to guard against the cold. ‘You’re planning on leaving me here at the monastery, aren’t you?’
‘You’re not strong enough to reach the cashel.’ It was best to grant her the protection of the Church. In this way, he could ensure her safety. ‘I’ll find your sister and bring her back to you.’
‘I want to believe you. But I don’t.’
‘You think I’m the sort of man who would leave her there alone?’ His temper flared that she would think such a thing. ‘I’m the one who sent her for help. It’s my obligation to bring her back to you.’
‘Jilleen is just a girl, a stranger to you.’ She exhaled a breath, still not trusting him. ‘What if the Lochlannach found her?’
‘Stop thinking like that. We don’t know why she didn’t return. But I promise you, I’ll find her.’
‘You’re a bard, not a warrior.’
Trahern took a step forward, using his height in an unspoken warning. Morren met his gaze, and he rested his hand upon his sword. ‘Be assured, Morren, I know how to fight. And defend.’ He’d spent years of his life practising with his brothers. Though he might be older than many, he hadn’t lost any of his abilities. If anything, his instincts were sharper.
Morren’s blue eyes faltered, and she looked away. Good. He wasn’t used to women doubting him.
‘If I had been there that night,’ he vowed, ‘each and every one of the Lochlannach fighters would be dead. They’d not have laid a hand upon you or Ciara.’
