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Morren’s shoulders lowered. ‘Would that it were so.’ She didn’t look at him, and he saw that words would not convince her. She picked up the long hem of his cloak and continued walking.
They travelled on in silence until they reached the stone chapel. Trahern was about to enter when he sniffed the air. The acrid scent of smoke suddenly permeated the landscape.
Morren moved to the crest of the hill, and Trahern spied billowing smoke clouds rising in the distance. From his vantage point, he saw flames rising from the fallen cashel in the distance.
‘They’re back.’ Morren’s hands moved to cover her mouth, and her face went white.
Trahern half-pushed Morren towards the chapel. From within, he heard the plain chant of the monks echoing. ‘Stay here with the brethren. I’m going after them.’
‘You have no horse,’ she protested. ‘They’ll cut you down.’
‘They won’t touch me.’ Trahern checked his weapons and cast her one final look. ‘I’m going to find out why they’ve returned. And what it is they want.’
‘Be careful,’ she urged.
He caught her hand in his. ‘Wait for me, Morren. I’ll be back by sunset.’
Chapter Three
The remains of Glen Omrigh were ghostly, with charred grasses surrounding the cashel. The wooden palisade wall was blackened and ruined in sections, the air heavy with smoke.
Trahern crouched low in the tall grasses, watching the silhouettes of two horsemen. It had taken him nearly an hour to reach the fortress, due to the hilly terrain, and the afternoon sun had already begun to drift downwards.
The invaders wore the clothing of the Lochlannach, Viking raiders by the look of it. Their long cloaks were fastened with large bronze brooches, and although the taller man wore no armour, Trahern sensed he would make a formidable opponent. His companion was shorter, with darker blond hair. Trahern grasped the hilt of his sword, while he pondered whether or not he could defeat them alone. It would be dangerous.
One of the huts was still burning, the thatch bright orange with flames. Smoke rose high into the air, the acrid scent smothering the cashel.
Trahern watched the two men as they patrolled the remaining huts, inspecting the contents. Not a single other person did he see. Any Ó Reilly survivors had abandoned the cashel.
Trahern kept one hand on his sword hilt when the men rode closer. Their faces showed displeasure, and he overheard them arguing in the Norse tongue.
They weren’t here to attack, it was clear, nor to steal the tribe’s valuables or supplies. Instead, the men’s expressions were grim, as though dissatisfied by what they saw.
Trahern moved in closer, keeping his body pressed to the ground. Dry grass tickled his face, the cold earth damp with frost. When he reached the outer palisade wall, he crept nearer to a burned section to get a better look.
One of the riders was on a familiar mount. It was Barra, the destrier that he’d paid a damned fortune for. The black horse was nervous from the smoke, prancing his feet. If the Lochlannach thief didn’t control Barra, he’d find himself on his backside.
Though Trahern wanted to attack the two men and regain his horse, logic forced him to hold back. He needed answers, and these men would lead him to them.
Within a few more minutes, the Vikings left the settlement and rode west. Trahern was torn between following them or entering the cashel to search for Jilleen Ó Reilly. Though he believed they’d taken her, he couldn’t be certain.
He cast a backward glance at the men before racing inside the cashel. Heavy smoke choked the air in his lungs, and heat blazed from the burning hut. He had only a few moments to spare before he had to follow the men.
Fate blessed him, for near the outer gate lay one of the shoes he’d given to Jilleen. Whether the girl had dropped it on purpose or whether she’d lost it didn’t matter. It confirmed that she was here. And he knew who’d taken her.
His fist curled around his sword hilt. The Lochlannach would answer for this.
Trahern picked up the shoe and ran back to the trail, running behind the men. He found a second shoe only a mile further, on the same path travelled by the riders.
When he reached the top of the next hill, he dropped low to study the men. They were travelling towards the Viking settlement along the coast. He’d seen it before, but knew he couldn’t make it there by nightfall, not without a horse.
He cursed, for he had no alternative except to turn back. He needed to borrow a mount from the monks.
Frustration shredded his patience, and he began the walk back to the abbey. Donning his own shoes once more, he imagined exactly how he would break through the Viking forces.
The abbot granted Morren the hospitality of St Michael’s, and an older monk, Brother Chrysoganus, led her to the guest house adjoining the monastery. He offered her a kindly smile and began filling a basin with water. When Morren realised he meant to bathe her feet as a gesture of welcome, she interrupted.
‘Forgive me, Brother Chrysoganus, but I would prefer to wash my own feet.’ She couldn’t bear the idea of anyone touching her just now, even if it was a tradition.
The older man appeared surprised by her declaration, but he deferred. ‘If that is your wish.’ Offering her the basin, he added, ‘I must join the others for none. If you have need of anything afterwards, you’ve only to ask.’
Morren nodded, unwrapping the leather shoes Trahern had made for her. She rested her bare feet in the warm water.
‘Thank you, Brother.’ After he’d gone, she bathed her feet and let them sit in the warm water for a few minutes.
The bells sounded for none, and she heard the monks’ voices rising and falling in plain chant. The simple tones were soothing, but when her hands moved over her skin, she started to tremble.
Dark memories pulled her down, the men’s faces taunting her. Morren tried to block it out, but the nightmare of the attack returned. She lowered her head, nausea forming in her stomach. God help her, she couldn’t bear this. Her hands moved to her empty stomach, and the coldness seemed to envelop her, drowning her.
Don’t think of it,she warned herself.Forget.
Closing her eyes, she removed her feet from the basin and sank to her knees. The haunting voices of the monks echoed within the stone chapel, their prayers rising into the air. The coldness swallowed her up, taking her back into the numbness that she needed to survive. There had been no one to save her, no mercy. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve such a fate.
Worse, there had come a time when she’d stopped fighting. She’d lain there, staring at the dark sky, waiting for it to be over. Shame swelled up inside her, for she should have struggled. Used her fists, her teeth—anything.
Instead, she’d prayed to die.
Her gaze fell upon the crude shoes lying beside the basin. Trahern had fashioned them for her, not wanting her to suffer from the cold. A hard lump formed in her throat at his kind gesture.
She suspected he wasn’t coming back. Though he’d sworn he’d return at sunset, she wasn’t certain he would keep his word. Her hands clenched together, and Morren forced herself to rise. Leaving the guest chamber behind, she stumbled to the one place that would offer sanctuary to her troubled thoughts: the garden.
Inside the monks’ small courtyard there were neatly tended plots that had not a single weed. A few heads of cabbage were left behind, along with herbs. In the corner, tucked away behind one of the apple trees, she saw an abandoned garden.
It was covered in dead weeds, left alone to grow over. Perhaps the monks no longer had a need for it, but she longed for something useful to do.
Over the next few hours, Morren busied herself clearing out the waste, working the good nutrients back into the barren soil. Perhaps, in the spring, they might find a purpose for the bed. The soil needed to rest through the winter, but in spring it would yield a good harvest if someone tended to it.
The distraction did nothing to cease her worry for Trahern. Likely another attack was happening at the cashel right now. He was alone, and though his strength was undeniable, if the Lochlannach found him they would kill him.
The thought made her nerves constrict tighter, and Morren voiced a silent prayer for his welfare. Though Trahern was hardly more than a stranger to her, he’d saved her life. If he hadn’t been there to tend her, she’d have bled to death.
She only wished he hadn’t sent her sister for help. Jilleen was her only family, her only companionship. Without her, Morren had no one.
She ripped out the weeds from the roots, as though she could tear out her own frustrations and fears. She longed to return to the cashel, to see for herself the extent of the damage, but her body couldn’t endure it. Even now, she fought the dizziness that threatened her vision with bright spots.
She didn’t know how many hours had passed, but in time Brother Chrysoganus brought her a simple repast of bread and cheese. ‘I thought you might like something to eat.’
‘Thank you, Brother.’ She wiped her hands on her skirts, realising she was hungrier than she’d thought. ‘I hope you don’t mind I spent my time working.’
Chrysoganus leaned heavily upon his walking stick, inspecting her efforts. ‘Not at all. I fear we’ve let that particular plot go fallow, but now that you’ve cleared it back, we’ll find a use for it. Thank you for your labour.’ He peered closer at the earth. ‘My hands can’t pull the weeds as easily as I’d like. Often the gardening falls to the younger brethren.’
Morren softened at his thanks, offering a tentative smile. Since she had no silver or possessions to offer the monastery in return for their hospitality, her skill was all she could give.
‘I’ve saved the weeds in a small pile over there,’ she said. ‘Cover them with leaves, and in the spring till the mixture into the soil, along with animal droppings,’ she advised. ‘Your garden will give you a good harvest.’
His craggy face formed an amused smile. ‘Will it, now?’
She rested her dirty palms on her lap and nodded. Broaching the subject she feared, she asked, ‘Have the fires in the cashel stopped?’
Chrysoganus’s smile faded, and he sat down upon a large, flat stone near the edge of the garden. ‘No, not yet. We don’t know who started them, but it must have happened early this morning.’
‘Not everyone died in the attack,’ Morren said slowly. ‘Why didn’t the survivors come here?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t be certain. We prepared the guest house, in anticipation of their arrival, but you and your companion have been the only folk we saw.’
How could it be that not a single person had taken sanctuary in the abbey? The fear she’d held back was starting to intensify. She’d wanted to believe that she could bring Jilleen back home, that they could find their place again and start over. But it was more likely that everyone was gone.
She looked into Brother Chrysoganus’s sympathetic brown eyes. ‘My travelling companion, Trahern MacEgan, went to look for my sister. He promised to return at sunset.’
‘I will see to it that accommodation is prepared for him.’ The monk inclined his head in a silent farewell as he took his leave.
After he’d left, Morren rose. Though her body ached and she still felt weak, she forced herself to walk to the tallest point of the abbey grounds. She needed to see her home, though it had been destroyed.
Each step was a struggle, and when at last she reached the topmost point of the hill in front of the abbey, she peered down and saw a rider approaching, a spear in his hand.
But it wasn’t Trahern.
Gunnar Dalrata knew he’d been followed. It was only out of sheer luck that he’d happened to see the grass ripple before his eyes, otherwise he’d not have seen the intruder watching them from outside the cashel.
He gripped his spear tighter and eyed his brother. Hoskuld didn’t seem to notice, but Gunnar remained a few paces behind. Glancing backwards, he spied the runner.
An Irishman. Had he been one of the Ó Reilly survivors?
Gunnar thought about alerting Hoskuld, but for what purpose? The Irishman had done nothing, except observe. He might have been looking for the girl they’d taken yesterday.
They crested the hill, and still the man pursued them. Was he planning to follow them to the settlement on foot? With another glance, Gunnar saw that the intruder had stopped at the top of the hill. Moments later, the man turned back.
Gunnar brought his horse alongside Hoskuld’s. ‘Someone was following us. I want to know why.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No. The man is on foot and unarmed from what I can tell. I want to question him.’
‘Bring him with you,’ Hoskuld suggested.
Gunnar’s expression turned grim. ‘I might.’ He quickened the pace of his mount, riding hard. He was about to overtake the Irishman when he happened to look up. The man was moving in the direction of St Michael’s Abbey, and in the distance, he saw the reason.
A woman stood at the top of the hill in front of the abbey. She was waiting for the man, and as Gunnar rode past, he saw the sudden fear and fury overtake the man’s expression.
It intrigued him. Perhaps the best way to get his answers was to await the man at the abbey. With his spear gripped in his hand, he rode up the hill to St Michael’s.
He saw the woman at closer range then. With fair hair and a quiet sort of beauty, her face would make any man want to fight for her. But when she caught sight of him, she fled.
Gunnar wheeled his horse back, keeping his spear aloft. When the Irishman arrived, he would be waiting.
Trahern tore up the hillside, his legs taking long strides. Anger gave him a speed he normally wouldn’t have. By God, he’d murder the Viking where he stood if he laid a hand on Morren.
It was the longest mile he’d ever run in his entire life. Fear punctuated his stride, along with guilt at having left her. Jesu, he shouldn’t have let Morren remain behind.
As he reached the top, he saw Morren disappear towards the chapel. Thank God, she’d had the good sense not to remain. He hardly felt his own exhaustion as he lunged towards the waiting rider. Energy roared through him as he seized the man’s spear and tossed it aside, dragging the Viking from his horse.
His enemy weighed nearly as much as he did, and Trahern grimaced when the man used his own strength to knock him to the ground.
‘I don’t like being followed,’ the man remarked, his voice heavy with a Norse accent. He twisted, wrestling Trahern to the side.
‘Neither do I.’ Trahern grunted, throwing the man off him. When the Viking stood up straight, he was startled to realise that they were the same height. Few men were as tall as himself, and even fewer possessed his strength.
The man’s gaze narrowed, and both of them saw the resemblance at the same time.
‘You’re one of us, aren’t you?’ the foreigner murmured. ‘I didn’t expect it.’
Trahern unsheathed his sword. ‘I’m not a damned Lochlannach, no.’
‘Then you haven’t looked at yourself recently.’ The man drew his own sword. ‘Why were you following me?’
‘Where is the girl?’ Trahern countered, swinging his weapon hard. The Norseman met his blow, blocking it.
A long blade came arcing towards his head, and Trahern sidestepped to avoid it, deflecting the slice with his own weapon.
‘I suppose you mean the one we found at the cashel yesterday,’ the man replied. ‘She’s at our settlement. But I don’t know if I’ll let you follow us there. Not with the kind of welcome you’ve given me.’ He lunged forward, his blade thrusting at Trahern’s gut in a physical challenge.
Trahern parried it, steadying his balance before he renewed the attack. He focused upon the fight, letting his training flow through him, meeting blow for blow. Sweat gleamed upon his skin, but he drove the man back.
When his blade nicked his opponent’s shoulder, satisfaction rippled through him. He’d been waiting half a year for this. He only wished he could fight against the other invaders, killing all of them.
He poured his rage, his grief, into the fight. It didn’t matter to him that they were standing upon holy ground, that it was a sin against God to fight here. This man had slaughtered innocents, like Ciara. He’d violated women, and he deserved to die.
Behind the Viking, he spied Morren walking slowly. The folds of her gown draped over her thin body, and she gripped the edges of the borrowed cloak. The hood had slid down, revealing her golden hair. Fear and horror washed over her face.
It renewed his strength, and Trahern slashed a brutal blow toward his enemy’s blade, sending the weapon spinning until it landed in the grass. The man’s look of surprise changed to grim acceptance, when Trahern grasped him by the hair, fitting his sword to his enemy’s throat.
Staring hard at Morren, Trahern demanded, ‘Did this man dishonour you?’
Chapter Four
All the blood had left her face, and Morren knew without question that the Viking was going to die at Trahern’s hands. His life depended upon her answer.
‘No,’ she whispered. Then louder, ‘No, he wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t there that night.’ She kept her voice steady, hoping he would believe her.
