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Her Warrior Slave
Michelle Willingham
A slave to her desires! Kieran Ó Brannon is no ordinary slave – defiant, daring and dangerous, he is untameable! Iseult MacFergus is drawn to this powerful man with the strength of a warrior and the honour of a king. She trusts him to help find her lost child…Kieran sold himself into slavery to save his brother’s life, but Iseult, with the face of an angel, gives him hope that he can again be a free man. Determined to find her child, Kieran may finally have his freedom – although now his heart is tied to Iseult’s for ever…



‘You’re unbearable,’ she said in disbelief.
Kieran tossed the wood aside. It clattered against the side of the hut, startling her with the sudden movement. Unbearable, was he? She had no idea.
He captured her wrist, drawing her forward until she stood before him. ‘That’s right, a mhuirnín. And you’d do well to stay away from me.’
He gave in to his desires, tilting her head back to face him. And learned that her hair truly was as soft as he’d thought it would be.
Iseult stared at him with shock, her mouth drawing his full attention. A few inches further and he’d have a taste of her forbidden fruit.
He held her there, waiting for her to strike out at him. Cry out for help to the guard she’d brought. But she didn’t say a word, just stood there watching him. Only the faint trembling in her hands revealed what she truly felt.
He released her, and Iseult stumbled away from him, shoving her way past the door.
Only after she’d gone did he realise he was also trembling.

About The Author
Michelle Willingham grew up living in places all over the world, including Germany, England and Thailand. When her parents hauled her to antiques shows in manor houses and castles, Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance.
She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame, with a degree in English, and received her master’s degree in Education from George Mason University. Currently she teaches American History and English, and is working on more medieval books set in Ireland. She lives in south-eastern Virginia with her husband and children. She still doesn’t have her broadsword.
Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com, or e-mail her at michelle@michellewillingham.com

Previous novels by this author:
HER IRISH WARRIOR *
THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH *
HER WARRIOR KING *
HER WARRIOR SLAVE is a prequel to The MacEgan Brothers trilogy
Also available in eBook format in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone
THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE
* The MacEgan Brothers

HER WARRIOR SLAVE
Michelle Willingham



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)

Author Note
When I was growing up, my father used to spend hour upon hour in his wood shop. The smell of wood shavings and sawdust is familiar, and always evokes special memories. Upon a recent trip to Ireland I saw a replica of a medieval lathe and a carved dower chest. I imagined a wood carver creating pieces of furniture and, at night, perhaps carving bits of oak. It was then that the character of Kieran was born. I imagined him as a fierce loner, falling in love with a woman he could never have, the bride of another man. I hope you enjoy Kieran and Iseult’s story and their bittersweet journey towards happiness. For those of you who have read books in my The MacEgan Brothers series, look for a special connection between Kieran and these characters.
Please feel free to visit my website at www.michellewillingham.com to view ‘behind-the-scenes’ photographs from the books. You can also sign up for my newsletter to be notified of future releases. I love to hear from readers, and you may contact me by writing to me at PO Box 2242, Poquoson, Virginia, USA, or via e-mail at michelle@michellewillingham.com
Thank you so much to Dr Aidan O’Sullivan, Senior Archaeologist Lecturer at the University College of Dublin, for his help answering my questions on medieval woodworking. I appreciate your suggestions and feedback regarding tools and the care of wood carvings.
Also with thanks to my father Frank Willingham, for inspiring me.

Chapter One
Ireland—AD 1102
‘He’s going to die, isn’t he?’ Iseult MacFergus stared down at the bruised body of the slave. Lash marks creased the man’s back, raw and unhealed. His skin was pale with hard ridges of bone protruding, as though he had not eaten well in several moons. Her mind rebelled at the thought of the torment he must have suffered.
Davin Ó Falvey handed her a basin of cool water. ‘I don’t know. Likely I wasted a good deal of silver.’
Iseult sponged at the blood, lowering her eyes. ‘We don’t need a slave for our household, Davin. You shouldn’t have purchased him.’ It was becoming less common among the tribes to own slaves. Her own family had never been able to afford them, and it made her uncomfortable, remembering her lower status.
‘Someone else would have, if I hadn’t.’ He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘He was suffering, a stór. At the slave auction, they beat him until he could no longer stand.’
She covered Davin’s hands with her own. Her betrothed was never one to let a man endure pain, not when he could intervene. It was one of the reasons he was her dearest friend and the man she had agreed to marry.
A hollow feeling settled in her stomach. Davin deserved a better woman than herself. She had done what she could to salvage her torn reputation, but the gossip had not died down, not in three years. She didn’t know why he’d offered for her, but her family had seized the opportunity for the alliance. It wasn’t every day that a blacksmith’s daughter could marry a chieftain’s son.
‘Let the healer tend him,’ Davin urged, his voice turning heated. She recognised the intent in his words, along with the hidden invitation. ‘Walk with me, Iseult. I haven’t seen you in a sennight, and I’ve missed you.’
She stiffened, but forced a smile. Go with him, her head urged. Though Davin had never once held her to blame for her sins, she felt unworthy of his love.
After summoning the healer, Davin took her hand and led her outside. The moon cast its shadow across his face. With fair hair and piercing blue eyes, Davin was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He drew her hand to his bearded cheek. Apprehension sliced through her, for she knew he was about to kiss her. She accepted his embrace, wishing she could feel the same ardour that he felt for her.
Give it time, she urged. But even when she poured herself into the kiss, it was as if she stood outside her body, an observer instead of a participant.
He held her closely, whispering against her ear. ‘I know you don’t wish to become lovers before Bealtaine. But I’d be a fool if I didn’t try to convince you.’
She pulled back, her gaze cast downwards. ‘I can’t.’
Her face brightened with shame, even now. The thought of lying with a man, any man, only brought back grievous memories.
Tension knotted across Davin’s face, but he did not press further. ‘I would never ask you to do anything you don’t want.’
And that was why she felt even guiltier. She didn’t want to lie with him, but what kind of woman did that make her? She’d surrendered to a moment of passion years ago, and paid the price. But now that a man loved her and wanted to marry her, she couldn’t seem to let go of the bad memories.
Davin dropped a hand across her shoulders, kissing her temple. ‘I’ll wait until you’re ready.’
He walked her back to her dwelling within the ringfort, his hand holding hers. When they reached the hut, Iseult paused beside the wooden door frame, as though it were a shield.
‘What will you do with the slave?’
‘I don’t know yet. Possibly he can help with the crops or tend the horses. I’ll speak to him once he’s awake.
‘I will see you in the morning,’ Davin said, regret edging his tone. He kissed her lips again. ‘See what you can do to keep our slave alive.’
Iseult nodded, ducking inside the house. For a moment she stood at the entrance, gathering her thoughts. Why couldn’t she feel the blaze of ardour that women spoke of? Davin’s kisses and affection evoked nothing but emptiness.
What was wrong with her? He, of all men, deserved to be loved. He treated her like a cherished treasure, offering her anything she wanted. It made her feel unworthy of him.
Her heart heavy, she walked inside to join the others. Muirne and her family were busy setting out food for the evening meal. Though the Ó Falveys were not her kin, they’d willingly opened their doors to her, granting her hospitality. Because of them, she had a place to stay while growing accustomed to her new tribe.
And, bless them, it kept her from having to live with Davin’s mother. The chieftain’s wife didn’t like her at all and made no secret of it.
‘Who was the man Davin brought with him?’ Muirne asked. A stout, raven-haired woman who had borne seven children, she fussed over Iseult as though she were one of her own. Without waiting for a reply, she continued, ‘You haven’t eaten this night. Come and sit with us.’ She gestured towards the low table where her other foster-children sat, teasing one another as they devoured their food.
‘He was a slave,’ Iseult answered. ‘Half-dead from what I understand.’
‘Well, that’s not much of a purchase.’ Muirne rolled her eyes and handed Iseult a plate of salted mackerel and roasted carrots. ‘But that’s Davin for you.’ She smiled as if speaking of a saint.
‘Mother, may I have more fish?’ one of the boys asked.
‘And me!’ the other chimed in. Glendon and Bartley charmed her, though the sight of them deepened the ache of loss in Iseult’s heart. Her own son Aidan would have been two years of age now.
Iseult picked at her food, her appetite suddenly gone.
‘Why haven’t you wed Davin already?’ Muirne asked, adding a slice of bread on to her plate. ‘I don’t understand why you’d want to wait until Bealtaine.’
‘Davin asked me to wait. He wants a special blessing upon our marriage.’ When Muirne was about to add even more food, Iseult covered her plate with a hand. ‘I’ve had enough, thank you.’
‘I’ll eat it,’ Glendon offered. Iseult slid the fish on to his plate, and the boy devoured it. Muirne muttered words beneath her breath about Iseult being too thin.
She tried to ignore the criticism. ‘I think I’ll take the rest of this with me and see if the slave is hungry.’
‘You shouldn’t be associating with the likes of him,’ Muirne warned. ‘He’s a fudir, and people will talk.’
Iseult faltered. They would, yes. The wise thing to do was to remain here and not to think about the slave. Likely the man would die, a stranger to all of them.
‘You’re right.’ When Muirne’s back was turned, she tucked a slice of bread into a fold of her cloak. ‘But I’m going to go for a walk. I won’t be long.’
Her friend fastened a knowing gaze upon her. ‘Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Iseult.’
She tried to muster a nonchalant smile, but it wouldn’t come. ‘I will be back soon.’
Outside, the moonlight illuminated a ring of twelve thatched stone cottages. The hide of a red deer was stretched across a wooden frame on one side, while outdoor cooking fires had died down to coals. The familiar scent of peat smoke lingered in the air, and the early spring wind bit through her overdress and léine. She raised her brat to cover her shoulders, seeking warmth from the shawl. Though she had only lived among the tribe since last winter, she was starting to consider the ringfort her home.
At last she stopped in front of the sick hut. Why had she come here? The healer Deena would already have fed the slave and tended him. Her presence would be nothing more than an interference. She almost turned away when the door opened.
‘Oh,’ Deena breathed, touching a hand to her heart. The healer had cared for members of Davin’s tribe for almost a generation, but her hair still held its black lustre. Fine lines edged her smiling mouth. ‘You startled me, Iseult. I was just going to fetch some water.’
‘How is the slave?’ she asked.
Deena shook her head. ‘Not well, I fear. He won’t eat or drink anything. Stubborn, that one is. If he wants to die, that’s his concern, but I’d rather it not be in my sick hut.’
‘Shall I speak with him?’
‘If it pleases you. Not that ’twill do any good.’Deena expelled a sigh of disgust. ‘Go on, then.’
Iseult stepped across the threshold into the darkened room. The hearth glowed with coals, and she smelled the intense aroma of wintergreen and camomile. The slave lay upon a pallet, his eyes closed. Unkempt black hair fell across his neck, his cheeks rough and unshaven. He looked like a demon who’d crawled from the underworld, a dark god like Crom Dubh.
But as a slave, he might have travelled across Éireann. He might have seen her son Aidan or have news. She tried to shut down the wave of hope building inside.
Don’t be foolish, her mind warned. With a countryside so vast, the chances of him knowing anything about a small boy were remote.
‘Will you eat something?’she asked, kneeling beside the pallet.
He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t move. Iseult reached out to touch his shoulder.
His hand shot out, crushing her wrist. Dark brown eyes flashed a warning at her, and she cried out with pain.
‘Get out,’ he said. The razor edge of his voice shocked her. He had none of the penitent demeanour of a slave.
Mary, Mother of God, what sort of man had Davin bought? Iseult scrambled to her feet, wrenching her hand away from his grip. ‘Who are you?’
‘Kieran Ó Brannon. And I want to be left alone.’ He rolled over, and Iseult shuddered at the sight of his raw back. The voice of reason demanded that she leave. Now, before he lashed out at her again.
‘I am Iseult MacFergus,’ she said calmly. ‘And I’ve brought you food.’
‘I don’t want it.’
Steeling her voice, she added, ‘If you don’t eat, you’ll die.’
‘I’d rather die than live like this.’
Instead of grief, she sensed a seething rage within him. It terrified her, not knowing what he would do or say. Like a wild animal, he was ready to strike out at anyone offering compassion.
Iseult dropped the food on the ground beside him, not caring if the dirt mingled with the bread. ‘If you’re going to die, do it quickly. Or if you decide to live, know that you’ll not be harmed here.’
Before he could reply, she fled outside. She would get no answers about her son, not from a man such as this. As far as she was concerned, the sooner Davin got rid of this slave, the better.
Kieran Ó Brannon wanted to laugh. It was fitting, wasn’t it, for one of God’s angels to appear before him. After the past season he’d spent in hell, the irony did not escape him.
Her hair was the colour of a sunset, gold and red intertwined. The blue léine and overdress she wore revealed a slim body and long legs. Once, he might have tried to charm a lady like Iseult MacFergus.
But women were not to be trusted, especially not beautiful women. He’d learned that the fairer they were, the more treacherous their hearts.
He stared at the fallen bread. Though his body cried out for food, his mind refused it. He no longer cared what happened to him. If he could encourage death to come sooner, so be it.
The healer Deena returned a moment later. She sat across from him, a foul-smelling decoction in her mortar. Her black hair hung down in a long braid, covered by a length of linen.
‘Why do you want to die, lad?’ she asked.
She reminded him of his grandmother, a brook-no-foolishness woman who spoke whatever was on her mind. When he didn’t answer, she prodded again. ‘Now, then, I know you can speak, as you nearly frightened Iseult to death. You must know that it won’t work with me. I can be quite a force to be reckoned with. Not to mention, I’ll be preparing your food and drink for the next few weeks.’
His head ached from her chatter. She had kept up a stream of talking while she mixed up God only knew what in her mortar.
At last he answered, if for no other reason than to make her cease the noise. ‘Why would I want to live?’
She shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. She’d won and knew it, too.
‘You’re an intelligent one, aren’t you, lad? Somewhere, you’ve got a family. And you’ll live because your kin would want it so.’
Had she read him that easily? Was she a soothsayer, as well as a healer? The unwanted memory of his younger brother sprang forth from his mind, Egan pleading for help. Like a cold blade, it sliced open his guilt, making him bleed from it.
His kin would rather see him dead.
But when she started to talk again, he shut off his emotions and picked up the fallen bread.
You don’t deserve it. You deserve to starve, like the rest of your tribe.
He shut out the voice and ate. It tasted as dry as it looked, but the vicious hunger inside him begged for more.
Deena handed him a clay cup, and he took it with shaking hands. He was so thirsty, he didn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten or drunk. When he tasted the bitter wine, he nearly choked at the vile taste.
Deena chuckled again. ‘It’s to make you sleep, lad. You’ll need to be on your feet again soon.’
If it would bring about forgetfulness, he’d drink it all. Without argument, he drained the vessel.
The healer spread the herbal mixture on his back, and, as promised, the cooling effect of the medicine did ease the pain of his wounds. The lash marks weren’t as deep as others he’d endured. He welcomed the pain, for it was a physical act of contrition.
‘You’d best be on better behaviour with Iseult MacFergus,’ Deena warned. ‘She is promised to wed the man who owns you. Davin Ó Falvey won’t look kindly upon anyone who mistreats his betrothed.’
‘Then I won’t speak to her at all.’ Kieran gritted his teeth when she laid linen atop his lash marks. He knew why she was tending him. Not out of compassion. A weakened slave held no value.
The thought of servitude chafed at his pride. He’d never been any man’s slave, and the instinct to fight back rose up, stronger than ever. Thoughts of escape tempted him, beckoning to his sense of pride. Healed or not, he could find a way out of this ringfort.
And then what?
He closed his eyes, wishing he knew. There was nothing for him to return to, nowhere to go. Perhaps his failures justified a life filled with suffering.
The healer handed him another slice of bread, which he ate without thinking. His stomach craved more, cramping up at the unexpected food.
‘That’s enough for now,’ she warned. ‘As thin as you are, if you eat too much, it will only come back up again.’
She held out a cup of cold water instead of wine. It tasted sweet, like melted snow. Unlike any of the mudridden water he’d gulped down over the past few months. He savoured it, letting it assuage his thirst.
The healer eased him down to the pallet, to rest upon his stomach. The herbs had begun to steal away the pain, drawing him towards sleep. He closed his eyes, his spirit feeling as bruised and battered as his body. The dark temptation of death cried out to him, for the finality would silence the ghosts that haunted him.
He’d chosen this path, selling himself into slavery. He’d meant to rescue his brother and bring Egan home again. Instead, he had played into his enemy’s hands.And lost.
His father would never forgive him for it. God willing, he’d never set eyes on his family again.

Chapter Two
Iseult draped a blanket across the black mare, vaulting atop the animal. She had packed a bag of provisions for the morning and early afternoon. Silently, she murmured a prayer. Please, God, let me find him. Let today be different.
She’d been searching for her son Aidan for nearly a year. And though she hadn’t found him yet, she couldn’t abandon the search.
‘Iseult!’ Davin called out. He strode towards her, gathering the reins of her horse. ‘Where are you going?’
She flinched at the sharp inquisition. ‘I think you know the answer to that.’
Davin hid his frustration, averting his gaze. Though he didn’t speak a word, he believed her search was fruitless. The chances of finding a missing child after a year were small, at best. But she couldn’t give up looking for Aidan. Not yet.
‘I know you don’t want to come,’ she admitted. ‘I won’t ask it of you.’
‘It isn’t safe for a woman to travel alone.’ Lines of worry creased his bearded face.
Iseult reached towards the dagger at her side. ‘I am armed, Davin. And I’m only going to visit the nearby tribes.’
He took her hand. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Really, you don’t have to—’
‘It’s important to you.’ He kept his face neutral, as though her quest were not an inconvenience. ‘And perhaps one day you’ll find the answers you seek.’
But Iseult heard the unspoken words: Perhaps, one day, you’ll give up.
He might be right. But she didn’t want to believeAidan was dead. In her heart, a frail hope continued to beat.
Never could she forget the infant who had grasped her long hair in his tiny palm, pulling the strands towards his mouth. Nor the horrifying moment when she turned to him and found him gone.
Davin joined her, riding along in silence while she took the mare along the sands leading up to the Benoskee Mountain. Clouds skimmed high above the rocky surface of the peak, shadowing the face. The deep azure of the lake marked the location of the Sullivan tribe.
She rode to their lands often, asking if messengers had stopped with any news. In the past year, she’d been to every neighbouring tribe and clan. Her hands tightened on the horse’s mane, as if she could somehow hold fast to her hope.
Perhaps today she’d find what she sought. Iseult steeled herself for the forthcoming pitying looks. They might think her foolish, but this was her child. She could never give up.
Davin stopped to let the horses drink, and she caught the impatience upon his face. She should have left before dawn. He could never understand this cross that she bore, for Aidan was not his.
Fate seemed to intervene at that moment, for a single rider approached at a rapid speed. The man didn’t bother to dismount, but addressed Davin. ‘You’re needed back at Lismanagh. Your slave is causing trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’ Davin’s face showed his displeasure at being interrupted.
‘Fighting with the others. We’ve bound him, but since hebelongs to you…’The messenger’s voice trailed off.
‘I’ll come.’ Davin urged the horse around, a determined look upon his face.
When he glanced at her, Iseult shook her head. ‘Go with him. I’ll be fine.’
‘I want you to come back with me. I don’t like leaving you here.’ There was an edge to his voice, almost like an angry parent.
Iseult stared back at him. She hadn’t wanted him to escort her, and now he treated her as though she were incapable of caring for herself. ‘I make my own decisions. And I’d rather look for my son than bother with a disrespectful, arrogant slave.’
A strange flash took hold in Davin’s eyes. ‘What do you mean…“disrespectful”?’
Iseult bit her tongue, wishing she hadn’t spoken. ‘I went back to assist Deena. The slave awakened, but I didn’t like him.’
‘Did he threaten you?’The iron cast to Davin’s voice made it clear that he was not at all pleased.
Iseult shrugged. ‘He asked me to leave, that’s all.’ She waved her hand as though it were nothing. ‘Go on. I’ll join you this afternoon.’
When he hesitated again, she drew her horse alongside his and kissed Davin gently. ‘Go.’
Her action had the intended effect, and he softened. ‘Be careful. If I do not see you by the noon meal, I’m sending men after you.’
He leaned in and kissed her again, this time with more intensity. Iseult accepted it, but her mind was still on the Sullivan tribe. Within a few more moments, she’d know if her search had been for nothing.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she promised.
Kieran strained against his ropes, hardly caring when the hemp bit into his flesh. They had bound him hand and foot, trussed like a fowl about to be roasted.
It was his own fault. He’d thought he could slip away without anyone noticing, forgetting that starvation had robbed him of his strength. When the men had sighted him, he’d fought them off as well as he could. Wounded a few of them, too, but in the end it hadn’t mattered. His strength was diminished almost to a boy’s. Blood matted his skin, his lips split from one of their punches. His back blazed with an unholy fire from the lash marks.
Would they kill him now? He steeled himself for it. Lowering his gaze, he stared at the damp earth. The scent of the smoke and straw were similar to his home in the south of Éireann. So far from here, almost a world apart. Away from those who would cast blame upon him.
He shouldered every pound of the guilt. It was his fault that Egan had died. If he could have put himself in his younger brother’s place, he’d have died a thousand deaths. Only three and ten, his brother had never had the chance to grow to manhood.
Kieran saw the flash of a blade, but didn’t move. A tall bearded man stood before him. He wore a dark green tunic, trimmed with gold thread. Wielding the knife in one hand, the man dismissed the others, authority evident in his voice. Their chieftain, perhaps, judging from his costly garments.
The man addressed him. ‘I am Davin Ó Falvey.’
His owner. The possessive sound in the man’s voice made Kieran want to snarl. He’d never been slave to any man, and bitter resentment filled him at his fate. ‘You’re the man who bought me.’
‘I am. And from the stories they’ve told, I suspect you’d like me to slice this blade across your throat.’
Kieran lifted his chin in an invitation. ‘Do it, then.’
Davin tilted the knife in the sunlight, the blade flashing. ‘I could. But then you’d get what you want. And I’d have lost the silver I spent.’Davin reached down to help him rise to his feet, cutting the bonds around his ankles, but leaving his hands tied. ‘What is your name?’
‘Kieran, of the Ó Brannon tribe.’
‘I’ve heard of your kin. They are a great distance from here, are they not?’
Kieran didn’t answer. Didn’t have to, for Ó Falvey already knew it. He studied his enemy. The flaith exuded a calm confidence, showing not a trace of unease. Davin watched him as if trying to make a decision.
‘You want your freedom. I can understand that, and perhaps I’ll grant it to you in return for your service.’
Kieran didn’t answer, for nothing would make him endure servitude willingly. He’d rather die than live as another man’s slave.
Davin reached into a fold of his cloak and held up a wooden figurine, the carved likeness of his brother Egan. ‘Or perhaps you’d like to earn this back.’
The carving. He cursed, trying to strike out despite his bound hands, but Davin stepped sideways, using his foot to send him sprawling on to the ground. Kieran tasted blood and dirt, hardly caring as he tried to attack again.
Gods above, but the piece of wood was the only thing he had left of Egan. It was only a piece of yew, but he’d given it to his brother years ago. Seeing it in his master’s hands ignited the same anger he’d felt towards the slave traders.
Davin caught him with a punch, and the air went crashing from his lungs. Kieran crouched down, trying to catch a breath. Blood trickled from the wounds on his back, and he bit back the pain.
‘Did you carve this?’ Davin asked softly, fingering the piece.
Kieran only stared at the man, rage seething inside him. He’d made a mistake, showing Davin that the carving was important to him. He forced a neutral expression on to his face as he got up from his knees.
‘You have skill,’ Davin remarked. ‘I think I know a way you can earn your freedom. And this.’ He tucked the figurine away in the fold of his cloak. ‘Come.’Davin grasped the length of rope that held his wrists captive, and Kieran struggled to follow.
He didn’t believe for a moment that Davin would set him free. His limbs ached, and the salty taste of blood lingered in his mouth. More than once, he stumbled, his knees shaking with weakness.
Davin led him inside a darkened hut, where Kieran smelled the stale odours of ale and old straw. Near the door stood a large oak chest, its height reaching the tops of his thighs and the length slightly larger than the spread of his arms.
The intricate carving was old, the wood hard and seasoned. Though his trained eyes saw a few deliberate flaws, nicks set against the grain, the chest was a masterpiece. And it was not yet finished.
‘This is a chest commissioned by my bride’s father. It was supposed to be completed last winter as part of her dowry.’
‘Who carved it?’
‘Seamus did.’ Davin kept his voice low and pointed to the empty pallet. ‘But he fell ill and died a sennight ago.’ He lowered his head out of respect and made the sign of the cross.
Kieran ran his hands over the wood, like a familiar friend. Temptation beckoned, to sink back into the days when he could lose his hours, forgetting all else but the wood. He had missed this.
‘A task such as this would be a simple matter and a worthy use of your time…’Davin paused ‘…unless you’d rather wait upon my father’s table or work in the fields.’
Kieran had no intention of doing either, but didn’t say so. ‘Aren’t you afraid of what I’d do if you gave me an adze or a knife?’
Davin stared at him for a long moment, as if considering whether the threat was genuine. ‘I don’t know who you are, or what lies in your past. But, perhaps once, you were a man of honour. And if that is true, you will not cause harm to others.’
A man of honour. His father had wanted him to become such a man. A future chieftain, someone to shoulder the burdens of the tribe. Perhaps once, he might have considered it. But that part of him was lost forever, from the moment he’d watched Egan die.
Despite his bound hands, Kieran ran his thumb over a thin ridge at the edge of the surface.
‘If your carving is of fine quality, I will grant your freedom,’ Davin said. ‘I give you my word.’ A dark warning flashed in his eyes. ‘If you obey and adhere to my orders.’
Empty promises meant nothing. But the wood beckoned. He could envision the finished chest: patterns of grain for fertility; water and fire to symbolise the ancient gods; and the face of the Virgin Mary to offer comfort to a new bride. It would need tallow to prevent cracking. And sharper tools for carving, since the wood had lost its moisture.
It had been months since he’d held a knife. He wanted a means of forgetting, and this would grant him another chance. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it.
The ropes around his wrists chafed against the unhealed wounds. He closed his eyes, while the memory of his brother Egan rose forth.
Voices taunted him, the bleakness threatening to cut him apart. After all that had happened, he couldn’t allow himself to find joy in the wood.
‘What is your answer?’ Davin asked.
Kieran raised his face to his master’s. ‘No.’
The slave’s arrogance had to be broken. Davin had ordered him bound and left outside. A light spring rain had begun. Perhaps the discomfort would force the man to change his mind.
Never had he seen such skill. Any other man would welcome such a task, for it was far easier than the backbreaking work most slaves endured. He doubted not that it was Kieran who had created the carving of the young boy. From the expression upon the slave’s face when he touched the oak, it was clear that this was a man of expertise.
Perhaps nobility.
Kieran endured pain the way most warriors did. And though it was cruel to expose him to the elements, it had to be done. His tribesmen expected the slave to be punished for attempting an escape.
A flicker of movement caught his attention, and he saw Iseult returning. Her hood was drawn over her face to protect it from the rain.
A lightness spread over him at the sight of her. After Bealtaine, she would belong to him as his wife. To know that he would be with such a woman, would see her beauty every moment of each day, filled him with satisfaction.
She stopped her horse near the mound of hostages and lowered her hood to get a better look at the slave. Davin’s hand tightened upon the hide door, willing Iseult to turn away.
Iseult didn’t speak to the slave. The rain had dampened the man’s black hair, staining his cheeks with water and blood. He sat with his back to the wooden post, his wrists carelessly resting on his knees.
‘Seen enough?’ His low voice abraded her sense of security, making her uneasy. He was rigid with anger, tension filling him.
She wanted to ask what he’d done to deserve this, but he wouldn’t give her the truth. A man like him was never meant to be confined. His eyes were watching the ringfort, as if seeking a way of escape.
She wanted to turn her back on him, to leave him without a second’s thought. But she refused to behave like a coward.
‘Why did he punish you?’ she asked.
His jaw tightened. Rain slid over his face, outlining hollowed cheeks. ‘Because I tried to escape.’
‘You were not mistreated. Why would you want to leave?’ Davin had saved his life. Was he not grateful for it?
‘A woman like you could never understand.’
Iseult stiffened at the accusation. What did he mean, a woman like her? Did he think she knew nothing of suffering? ‘You don’t know me at all.’
He rose to his feet slowly, watching her. Within his face she saw pain, but he made no complaint. ‘You shouldn’t be here, talking to me,’ he said. ‘Your betrothed is watching us.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
He took a step forwards, straining at his ropes. A fierceness tilted at his mouth. ‘But I have.’
Her imagination conjured up thoughts of murder or other wickedness. Although Kieran was lean, there was a ruthless air about him. As though he would do anything to survive.
‘Weren’t you ever warned about men like me?’ His rigid stare reached inside and took apart her nerves. The cool rain rolled down her skin, sliding beneath her bodice like a caress. She shivered, drawing her cloak around her. Not that it would protect her.
Kieran’s face grew distant. Then his mouth tightened. ‘Go back to your own master, Lady Iseult.’

Chapter Three
The second escape attempt failed. Kieran had made it beyond the gates this time, nearly to the forest before his body had collapsed. He didn’t know how long he’d lain there. Hours or minutes, it was all the same.
The fecund scent of rain and grass had surrounded him, while he welcomed the promise of death. He’d awakened to an animal licking his face. A wolfhound, nearly the size of a newborn mare, had whimpered and crooned to alert the others.
It was the middle of the night when they dragged him back to Deena’s hut. His skin was puckered from the rain, his body numb with cold.
Just as before, Deena treated the lash marks upon his back. She spread an oily salve upon the rope burns at his wrists. It stung, instead of soothing his irritated skin.
‘You shouldn’t bother,’ he said. ‘I’m not afraid to die.’
The healer studied him as she worked. Gently, she continued treating each of his wounds.
‘I had a son once,’ Deena said quietly, holding out a cup of bitter tea. Though he accepted it, he did not drink. Unless the brew would bring a final sleep, he had no interest in painkillers.
‘A strong young man, about your age.’ She smiled in memory, the fine lines crinkling around her eyes.
Kieran kept his gaze upon the simple wooden cup, as though he hadn’t heard her. But he was well aware of her words.
‘He was struck down by the evil spirits that cause sickness. On a spring night, such as this.’ She took the cup and lifted it to his mouth, touching his cheek as she did so.
But still he did not drink.
‘I did everything in my power to save him. I used every herb, prayed to every god in heaven or known to my ancestors. But it wasn’t enough.’
Her wrinkled hand pressed warmth into his skin, the touch of a mother. ‘For a long time, I blamed myself. I wanted to die, just as you do.’
Her other hand moved to his shoulder. ‘The pain doesn’t go away. You must endure it, one day at a time.’
‘I don’t want to take away the pain,’he said. Violence rimmed his words. ‘I want to remember. And I want every last one of them dead for what they did.’
‘I don’t know what you’ve suffered, lad. I won’t ask. But whatever evil befell you, it takes a greater courage to live than to die.’ She tilted the cup, easing the liquid into his mouth. At first, he nearly choked. She moved the cup away while he coughed.
‘Perhaps this is your penance. To be left alive.’ She pressed the cup to his mouth again.
This time he accepted the brew, drinking steadily. Deena took the cup away when it was empty and approached a small chest. From within it, she brought out a dagger and set it beside him.
‘I’m going to leave this here. And I’ll return to my own dwelling to finish my sleep, as most should do in the middle of the night.’ Deena’s voice hardened. ‘But if you truly want to die, I’ve given you the means.’
She stopped in front of the door, about to leave. ‘If you’re alive when the sun rises, put all thoughts of escape out of your mind. This is your home now. This is the path you’re meant to take. God has put you here, perhaps to teach you humility. And you must accept your fate.’
He slept, harder than ever before. It was as if his body could not heal itself until he’d made up for every hour he’d lost. The sunlight pierced his vision when the door opened. Kieran rubbed his eyes and saw the dagger still beside him.
His penance, she’d said. And though invisible ropes tightened around his throat at the knowledge of his slavery, he knew she was right. He had failed his brother. He deserved to lose his birthright and his family. To become a slave, to accept this punishment.
The door swung open and his master, Davin Ó Falvey, entered the hut. His expression was grim.
‘You caused a grave inconvenience to my men last night. I don’t know how you managed to free yourself from the ropes, but I won’t let it happen again. I’ll sell you back to the traders, and they can do what they will with you.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘Unless you’ve changed your mind about the carving.’
There was no doubt Davin meant what he said. Many slaves were traded by the Norsemen, sent across the sea to Byzantium or to faraway lands. And though his life would never again be the same, at least he could remain upon his homeland.
All he had to do was agree to complete the dower chest. It wasn’t as if he had a choice, was it? He had to endure this fate and complete whatever task was ordered of him.
He sat up slowly, pressing through the pain. ‘I’ll begin working on the chest this day.’
Davin’s shoulders lowered slightly, a barely perceptible relaxation. ‘Not yet. Before I let you touch the chest, you must first prove your skills.’
Prove his skills? He’d been carving wood since he could hold a knife. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t bring to life from a block of wood. This is your penance, he reminded himself, swallowing his frustration and resentment.
‘I want you to carve a likeness of my bride Iseult. If I find it worthy of her beauty, I will allow you to finish the chest.’
He might have known. The woman loathed the sight of him, and he didn’t have any desire to spend time with Iseult MacFergus. Yet he had no choice if he wanted to capture her spirit in the wood.
‘If I carve her likeness, you won’t have the dower chest in time for a bridal gift.’ It was a last, fruitless attempt to change his master’s mind.
‘I would like the figure, nonetheless.’ Davin opened the door wider and pointed towards one of the huts. The morning sun illuminated the interior of the ringfort, the glaring light burning his eyes.
‘The smallest hut belonged to our woodcarver, Seamus,’Davin said. ‘Inside, you will find the tools you need.’
‘And the wood?’
‘It is there.’ Davin leaned down and picked up the knife Deena had left behind. ‘You will begin the carving after your confinement.’
Confinement? His knuckles clenched as the full weight of his slavery pressed down upon his shoulders. He was to be punished for running away again. Of course.
‘For three days, you’ll remain guarded, in isolation. If you do as you are told, on the last day the guards will leave, and you’ll be permitted to begin the carving.’ Davin tossed the knife and caught it by the hilt. ‘You should be grateful for Iseult’s mercy. I would have confined you outside for the three days.’
‘I don’t need a woman’s pity.’The words came forth, behind a backlash of anger. ‘There is no punishment I am unable to endure.’
Davin leaned down, the knife glinting. ‘I will not tolerate disrespect towards her. She asked me to grant you mercy. For her sake, I will.’ He turned the blade close to Kieran’s skin in an unspoken threat. ‘I’ll send the guards now. They’ll take you to Seamus’s hut.’ Without another word, he strode outside into the sunlight.
Kieran rolled over and stared up at the ceiling of thatch and wood. He didn’t want to waste his days carving a woman’s likeness. It didn’t matter that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He hardly needed Iseult’s presence to create the image. Already he could see the curve of her cheek, the sadness in her expression.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the vision of the last female likeness he’d created. He’d almost wed Branna, but her heart had belonged to another man in the end.
Treacherous work, indeed.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Davin said.
His offer didn’t make Iseult feel better. Just the thought of being watched by the slave, letting him carve her image, made her nervous.
‘I’d rather not do this at all.’ She moved to a basket of mending Muirne had set aside and picked up a bone needle. The sewing gave her something to occupy her hands. ‘It makes me feel vain. What need do we have of a likeness?’
‘I want it.’ He came up behind her, resting his hands upon her shoulders. ‘I want something of you, for when we are apart.’
‘You’ll see me every day.’She wanted to talk him out of this. No other man had ever shaken her up in this way. There was something about the slave, both terrifying and fascinating.
On the day she’d found him bound outside in the rain, despite the miserable conditions, he had refused to let it break him. He was a fighter to his core. Somehow he’d freed himself, half-dragging his body through the mud in a desperate attempt for freedom.
Would she have done the same?
A pang clutched at her heart. Not for herself. But if she ever received word of her son, then, yes, she would never stop searching, no matter what happened.
Davin had no choice but to punish the slave; she knew that. But she didn’t want to face Kieran again. The idea of seeing him bound to the mound of hostages, exposed to the elements, would only make the man even more savage. Like a wild animal, prepared to strike out at those who harmed him.
She hadn’t wanted to see him again. Not like that. It was why she’d asked Davin to confine Kieran elsewhere. As if hiding him would make him disappear. Childish thoughts. She had to face him sooner or later, but if she showed him her fear, Kieran would only exploit it.
‘Did he harm you?’ Davin asked.
He’d questioned her about it before. And the truth was, he hadn’t.
‘No. It was only words. He was in a great deal of pain.’ She shrugged it off as though it were nothing. Rising to her feet, she took Davin’s hands in hers. His broad palms covered her own, making her feel safe. ‘Is this truly important to you? The carving?’
‘It is. But more than that, it’s part of a gift I want to give you. He’s going to finish your dower chest.’
She wanted to say that it was simply a wooden container, with no meaning. But he’d commissioned Seamus to make it into a work of art, into a treasure. Though Davin wouldn’t say why, she could see that it meant more to him.
She let out a breath. ‘Then I’ll go.’ Laying a hand upon his cheek, she added, ‘And I’ll take a guard with me. You needn’t come. I know your responsibilities to your father are more important.’ As the chieftain’s son, Davin had his own leadership duties. Not only that, but she refused to let this slave believe she was afraid of him.
She would not let an insolent man dominate her. Squaring her shoulders, she prepared herself for what was to come.
Three days later, Iseult strode inside the woodcarver’s hut, as though meeting with the slave were an inconvenience instead of something she dreaded. Be confident, she reminded herself. Don’t be afraid of him.
‘You.’ She pointed at the slave. ‘What sort of spell did you cast upon Davin?’
Kieran turned around, a whetstone and iron blade in his hands. ‘No spell.’ Though it was only a carver’s knife, Iseult’s heart beat a little faster. The way he held the blade intimidated her. He drew it across the whetstone, honing it to a razor’s edge.
She grimaced and dropped the bag of supplies Davin had sent before sitting down upon a tree stump. Outside the hut, she had brought one of Davin’s men. The guard was more than a little irritated, having to watch over her, but it made her feel better.
‘I suppose you know why I am here. For the carving, I mean.’ The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She sounded like a babbling young maiden instead of a calm woman. Of course he knew why she was here.
‘You want an image of yourself out of wood.’ He spoke the words with a casual air.
How could he think that? This wasn’t her idea at all. It was the last thing she desired.
‘It was Davin’s wish,’she corrected. ‘I had nothing to do with this.’She wanted so badly to turn around and run.
But then, from the gleam in his eye, she wondered if Kieran was provoking her on purpose. His black hair hung unkempt about his shoulders, his demon eyes as dark as his soul. His tunic hung upon him, still bloodstained from the marks upon his back.
‘You won’t have to stay long,’ he said. There was a hint of resentment beneath his tone, as if he hated anyone commanding him. He set down the knife, wrapping it carefully in leather before picking up a gouge.
Iseult looked around at Seamus’s hut. She’d visited a time or two, and although the space was by no means built for a family, it was large enough for two people. A pallet stood at one end, a work bench at the other. It was no wider than thirteen feet in diameter, made of wattle and daub. The roof often leaked, as she recalled. ‘You’re staying here?’
‘For now. Until he commands otherwise.’Again, she sensed the rebellion within his voice.
Iseult studied the work bench. Kieran had spent the afternoon preparing the tools, it seemed. Rows of knives and gouges were spread out upon the table, along with wooden mallets and chisels. The air smelled of wood shavings, and he’d built a fire in the hearth.
She sniffed suspiciously, then turned to him. ‘What did you eat this evening for your meal?’
Kieran said nothing, lifting a block of yew. He sat upon a wooden stump, opposite her. His hands moved over the wood, studying it. He was so intent upon it, he didn’t answer her question.
She already knew the answer. He hadn’t eaten at all. And from his pride, this was not a man who would ask for help. She didn’t know what kind of food or drink he’d had during his confinement, but it couldn’t have been much of anything.
It pricked her conscience, to see a man suffering. Even this one, as harsh as he was, did not deserve to starve. If she offered to prepare food, he’d never touch it.
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.
She didn’t answer him, and he sighed, releasing her. ‘One of the ringforts was attacked, near the coast. We need to ensure that the raiders don’t come near us.’
‘As you say,’ she murmured, her voice unable to conceal her frustration.
He touched her cheek. ‘Just a few more weeks, Iseult. If you’re not ready to give up, we’ll continue your search.’
Behind his promise, she sensed his reluctance. Though he would never say it, this was another man’s child.
‘Until later,then.’The liefelleasilyfrom hermouth, but inwardly she intended to keep searching. She’d wait until Davin left and travel east, closer to Trá Li. Though she didn’t like the idea of going alone, no one else would help her. They, like Davin, believed she should give up.
‘Come and dine with my family tonight,’Davin urged.
Iseult dreaded the idea of sharing a meal at the chieftain’s table. She avoided it whenever possible, but she could not insult them by refusing.
‘You should go and see Kieran now,’ Davin said, kissing her. ‘Make sure he’s begun the carving of you.’
‘How do you know he has any skill at all? I’ve yet to see him lift a blade to wood.’ She disliked being the subject of such scrutiny, especially from the slave. He was unpredictable, fierce, and not at all humble.
‘You should see this.’ Davin reached into a fold of his cloak and withdrew a carved wooden figure of a boy. Iseult held it in her palm, struck by the intricate facial expression. The carved boy held the innocent wonder of early adolescence, coupled with a trace of mischief. When she ran her thumb over the piece, she understood what Davin had seen in it. This was a carving created by a master. ‘Was this his brother?’ she asked.
‘I suspect it might be. He wants it back, and I have promised it to him, in exchange for your likeness. If he completes the dower chest to my satisfaction, I will grant him his freedom.’
She handed the carving back to him. How could a man with such hatred in him create a work of beauty like this? Lost in thought, she was barely aware of Davin’s departure.
An hour later, she stood before the woodcarver’s hut.
Kieran sensed Iseult’s presence before he looked up from his work. The light floral fragrance surrounded her, like a breath of spring. It made him edgy, being around this woman.
At least she was betrothed to his master and was completely beyond reach. He could ignore the unwelcome awareness because of it.
‘Davin asked me to come and see that you’ve begun the carving,’ she began, stepping across the threshold without waiting for an invitation.
Of course, she had that right. He was a slave, and she would become his mistress soon enough after she wed Davin. His skin prickled at the invasion of his privacy. He preferred working alone.
He set down the gouge and flicked a glance at her. By the Almighty, she was an exquisite creature. Her light golden hair held the faintest touch of fire. It hung down to her waist, pulled back from her face with a single comb. A smudge of clay clung to her cheek, while upon her wrists he saw the faint traces of mud that she’d tried to scrub away.
In his mind, he envisaged her slender fingers twining the clay into coiled ropes. The vision conjured up an unexpected flush of heat, as he imagined her fingers moving over a man’s skin. He didn’t know where the thought had come from, but his body reacted to her nearness.
‘I’ve begun the work, yes.’ He covered the carving with a cloth, stretching his hands. The initial outline was good, but he hadn’t captured her spirit yet. ‘Was that all you wanted?’
Maybe she would leave. But no. She sat down upon one of the tree stumps. Crossing her wrists over one knee, she added, ‘I don’t like being here. But I suppose you’ll need to finish your drawings.’
The honesty did not bother him. He preferred a forthright conversation and a woman who spoke her mind. ‘I can’t say as I like being here either.’
She stared at him, as if questioning whether he was trying to be funny. Then she dismissed it, asking, ‘Did you remember to eat? Or was that too much of an inconvenience?’
‘I have the supplies Davin sent.’ They were of the lowest quality, the bread heavy and coarse. Nevertheless, he’d eaten the food in solitude.
Picking up the board he’d used the other day, he began sketching her eyes. A deep sea blue, they held such sadness. Haunted, they were. ‘I saw you weeping this morn.’
‘It’s none of your affair.’
True enough. Though women cried often, it wasn’t something he liked to see. His sisters often used it to their advantage, weeping whenever they wanted something. They’d known he would relent to their demands.
Seeing Iseult weep was another matter. He sensed that her grief went beyond anything Davin could fix. Or perhaps it was because of Davin.
‘We all have our secrets,’he answered in turn. ‘Keep yours, if you will.’
Changing to another piece of the board, he drew her mouth. It was symmetric, rather ordinary. Never had he seen it smile, not even around her betrothed.
She straightened, looking even more uncomfortable. ‘Will this take very long?’
He set down the charcoal. ‘You are free to leave, any time you wish.’
‘Unlike you. I know.’ She crossed her arms. ‘Don’t think I haven’t considered leaving. But the sooner I get this over with, the less time I have to spend here.’
He kept his attention focused on her mouth, though he gripped the piece of charcoal harder. As he drew and time passed, her lips began to soften.
He’d been wrong. This was not an ordinary mouth. Full and sensual, when she let herself relax, this was a woman any man would want to kiss. Would she taste as good as she smelled?
The piece of charcoal slipped from his fingers. Stop thinking about her.
Iseult rested her chin in her palm, her attention upon the glowing hearth, pensive and quiet. He liked the way she felt no need to fill up the silence with chatter.
He sketched more angles of her face and eyes, continually switching the angle of the charcoal to gain a sharper corner. At last, she spoke again.
‘Did you truly carve the figure of that boy? Or was that a lie?’ Without waiting for a response, she continued, ‘I suppose you’d say anything to Davin to get your freedom.’
‘I don’t lie.’ He tossed the charcoal aside, reaching for a different piece. There was no need to argue his skill. The wood itself would offer the evidence.
He heard the sound of liquid pouring, and Iseult brought him a cup of mead, crossing the room to stand beside him. He didn’t have time to hide the drawing.
She drank from her own wooden cup, tilting her head to look at it. ‘You haven’t drawn my face at all.’
He’d sketched four different expressions for her eyes. On another part of the board, he’d drawn her mouth. He wasn’t satisfied with the drawing yet, for it had not captured her.
‘No. It isn’t necessary to draw a complete face.’ He accepted the cup and set it down beside him.
‘Why not?’
Because he had already memorised it. Because a woman with her beauty would not be easily forgotten.
He drank of the mead, savouring its sweetness. ‘Because I’m good at what I do.’ Setting the cup aside, he picked up the charcoal again. This time he focused on the curve of her cheek, the softness of her ear.
She leaned in, watching him, and her scent tantalised him again. Sweet with a hint of wildness.
‘Show me what you’ve carved so far.’ Her quiet request slid over him like a caress. He knew she meant nothing by it, but the nearness of her made him react.
Críost, he wasn’t dead. She would make any man desire her. Her eyes looked upon him with doubts.
‘No.’He rarely showed his work to anyone, not until it was finished. They wouldn’t understand the patterns and gouges, nor the intricacy, until the end. ‘It’s only an outline with the background removed.’
‘I don’t believe you carved that figure.’
She was so close now. He could reach out and touch her, thread his hands through the silk of her hair. See if it looked as soft as he suspected.
‘And I don’t care what you believe.’He didn’t temper his tone. She was trying to provoke him into revealing what he’d carved. He’d not fall into that snare.
‘If you’re so eager to admire yourself, you’ll just have to wait a few days.’
Her lower lip dropped in disbelief. ‘You’re unbearable.’
He tossed the board aside. It clattered against the side of the hut, startling her with the sudden movement. Unbearable, was he? She had no idea.
He captured her wrist, drawing her forward until she stood before him. ‘That’s right, a mhuirnín. And you’d do well to stay away from me.’
He gave into his desires, tilting her head back to face him. And learned that her hair truly was as soft as he thought it would be.
She stared at him with shock, her mouth drawing his full attention. A few inches further, and he’d have a taste of her forbidden fruit.
He held her there, waiting for her to strike out at him. Cry out for help to the guard she’d brought. But she didn’t say a word, just stood there watching him. Only the faint trembling in her hands revealed what she truly felt.
He released her, and Iseult stumbled away from him, pushing her way past the door.
Only after she’d gone, did he realise he was also trembling.

Chapter Five
Iseult hardly spoke during the evening meal. She was still shaken by the slave’s sudden move. Her skin had blazed with unwanted heat when he’d cupped her cheek. It had been a warning, not an act of desire. So why had she found it difficult to breathe? Possibly it was just humiliation. She could have Kieran whipped for touching her, if she confessed it.
But she didn’t want to be the cause of another’s suffering. The slave hadn’t truly done any harm, only embarrassed her.
She reached out to her cup, but found it empty. She knew better than to ask Davin’s mother Neasa for more wine. Though Iseult was their guest at dinner, Neasa made no secret of her displeasure about the forthcoming marriage. A beautiful older woman, her shining black hair showed no signs of greying, and her figure was the size of a young girl’s, despite the three children she’d borne. She smiled up at her son, nodding for a slave to refill his cup.
Davin poured half of his drink into her empty one. Iseult sent him a grateful look. Leaning in, he whispered, ‘You look lovely this night.’
Her skin reddened, but she murmured, ‘Thank you.’ With her eyes, she sent him a silent plea: Let me leave. I want to go home.
But he didn’t seem to see it.
‘Will you hunt on the morrow, Davin?’Neasa inquired.
‘I will, yes. I intend to take several of the men with me. I’m wanting a fine feast for my future wife.’He sent Iseult a proud smile, and she nodded in acknowledgement. The thought of their wedding brought a wave of nervousness. She supposed every bride felt that way.
‘Much can happen before Bealtaine,’ his mother argued. ‘There is no need to be married so soon.’
Iseult drained her cup, her hand tightening over the stem. If Neasa had her way, they’d not be married at all. It hurt to think that nothing she did was good enough. Never did the woman cease reminding Iseult that she was the daughter of a blacksmith and therefore unworthy to wed Davin.
‘It has been longer than I’d like,’ Davin replied. ‘Perhaps I’ll wed her at sundown tomorrow.’ He wrapped his hand around Iseult’s braid in a teasing gesture. Iseult answered his smile, but inwardly, she was wary. The last time she’d considered a marriage, it had ended in humiliation. It was hard to let herself trust a man again.
Her skin chilled at the memory of waiting alone with the priest, for a lover who never arrived. She’d been pregnant with his child, and he’d known it. So had everyone else.
Shame filled her, remembering the way her friends and family had stared at her. Murtagh had joined a monastery, rather than wed her. And didn’t that offer plenty of gossip for long winter nights, along with his babe swelling at her waist?
Neasa hadn’t forgotten about it; that much was clear. She believed Iseult was unworthy of wedding a nobleman. Yet Davin had offered for her, treating her as though she were a princess, instead of a commoner. The man loved her, though she did not understand why.
‘Davin, you will be chieftain one day soon,’ Neasa reminded him. ‘There are many responsibilities. Iseult has much to learn before she can be a proper wife.’
‘I will be leader only if I am chosen by the people,’ he corrected. Though he kept his tone even, Iseult saw the longing upon his face. He wanted to lead the tribe, and all knew there was no other choice but him.
Davin’s father Alastar interrupted at that moment. ‘Neasa, there’s no need to speak of me as if I’m dead. I am chieftain and will be for some time.’Alastar rose and stretched. ‘Come, Davin. I would hear your plans for Bealtaine.’
Iseult eyed the doorway with longing, but she hadn’t been invited to go with the men. Silently, she helped Neasa clear the plates away.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ she asked, when she’d finished.
‘Yes.’ Neasa set down the clay jug of mead and regarded her. ‘You could refuse to wed my son, but I know you won’t do it.You’re too eager to wed a man of his rank.’
Iseult’s temper flared. The woman made her sound greedy, as though she were wedding Davin for his gold. ‘Davin is a good man. I intend to give him my respect and care.’ She bit her lip to keep from saying more.
‘He deserves a woman who understands how to be chaste. You’ve borne a child.’
‘A child who was stolen from me,’ Iseult argued. ‘You, at least, have your son standing before you. I know not whether mine lives or is dead.’
The wrenching pain strangled her heart, and tears swam in her eyes. Davin’s quiet presence had been a balm to her bleeding soul when she’d lost her son Aidan. He had comforted her in her grief, treating her with such tenderness, such love.
‘You understand a mother’s love for her child,’Neasa said, though her voice was a sharp blade. ‘And you know that I want what is best for him.’ She wiped her hands upon a drying cloth and added, ‘You could not possibly understand what it means to lead our people.’
Neasa was wrong. Though she might not be one of them, never did she fear the responsibilities that would become hers. Her only thoughts were to take care of Davin and to build a home with him.
‘I may not be a chieftain’s daughter,’ she acknowledged, ‘but I will do what is necessary to make Davin happy.’
Neasa shook her head. ‘It’s not enough.’
Iseult had endured her fill of the woman’s criticism. She walked quietly to the door and opened it. ‘It will have to be.’
She stepped outside into the cool darkness. Neither Davin nor Alastar was nearby, and she suspected they’d gone for a walk. Though courtesy dictated that she say goodnight to her betrothed, she continued walking towards Muirne’s hut.
What was she going to do when she was expected to live with Davin’s family? They would have to build a hut of their own, else she’d go mad. His mother would do everything in her power to undermine their marriage.
Iseult walked faster, releasing her anger with each step. Sometimes she wished Davin were not the chieftain’s son. She wanted a simple life, one where they could live in peace. Perhaps with children surrounding them. And Aidan, safely home again.
Above her, the moon hid behind clouds, and Iseult walked past Muirne’s hut, needing a quiet moment alone. She passed the gates of the ringfort, until she could no longer see the flicker of torches.
Sinking down into the damp spring grass, she calmed herself. The fertile scent of the land granted her peace.
‘You shouldn’t be out here alone,’ a voice said. She turned towards the sound and saw Kieran. He drew nearer, his profile shadowed by the light behind him. His black hair fell against his face, and he crossed his arms. Rough and wild, the locks cut against his cheeks, badly in need of taming. Though he said nothing, he kept watching her.
Iseult pulled her knees against her chest, suddenly uneasy. Not a guard was in sight, and outside the ringfort, no one would see them.
‘I wanted to be alone. And I’m fine, as you can see.’
Again, he remained silent. His arrogance reminded her that this man knew not the meaning of humility or servitude. Unlike Davin’s other slaves, he did not hide back in the shadows, nor keep his face averted.
Uncomfortable, she rose to her feet. ‘You aren’t going to leave, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Are you planning to try another escape?’It wouldn’t surprise her if he did. She wanted to see him go, to be rid of this anxious feeling that happened each time she was near him.
‘Not yet.’ He was biding his time, feigning obedience. Couldn’t Davin see this man for who he truly was?
Kieran continued walking towards her, moving as though he owned this land. As if he owned her.
It made her anger rise higher. If she wanted to take a walk, then she’d do it. She needed no escort.
Rising to her feet, she walked further until she was near the forest. It was as far as she dared travel.
Kieran shadowed her, keeping a slight distance back. But she knew that no matter how far she went, he would follow. His head turned as if watching the surrounding areas for danger.
But the only danger she felt was from him.
‘I don’t need a guard.’
‘Yes, you do.’ His voice resonated in the stillness, deep and commanding.
‘It’s not your responsibility to watch over me.’
Against the backlight of the torches, his silhouette merged with the darkness. Though his skin still held the sharp lines of hunger, she could not deny the strength in him. And beyond his unreadable expression lay such emptiness, it almost mirrored her own.
‘Perhaps not.’ His gaze lingered upon her face, as though he were trying to forge it into his memory.
The need to move away from him was so strong, she circled around, walking back to the ringfort. The hair on the back of her neck rose up in full awareness of Kieran. Though she didn’t turn to see him, she sensed his presence.
Once they were back inside the safety of the palisade, she glanced around. Before him, she felt exposed, as though he could look into her soul and see the vulnerability there.
‘Goodnight.’ Kieran turned abruptly to leave, and yet Iseult couldn’t bring herself to open the door. Her heartbeat hammered within her chest, and her skin warmed. Though there was no reason to be afraid of him, she couldn’t help but feel something. Slave or not, he intimidated her.
And Davin expected her to spend time alone with this man each day? She couldn’t do it.
Only a few days more, logic reminded her. It would not take that long to finish the carving. And when it was done, she would not see him again.
Davin Ó Falvey woke at dawn, staring at the empty space beside him in the bed. His chamber within his father’s house boasted of wealth. Only the softest fabrics covered his bed, and polished tortoiseshell shields decorated the walls. He had everything a man could want: gold, fine clothing, and the promise of becoming chieftain. And yet it was nothing without Iseult to share it.
He loved her deeply and could think of no greater joy than waking beside her. Never had he seen a more beautiful or perfect woman. Though his mother argued about her lack of social status, none of that mattered. In a few more weeks, Iseult would belong to him.
He pulled on clothes suitable for hunting and chose a bow and arrows. He wanted to provide for her, to show her how very much he cared. And perhaps one day she would return his love.
Oh, he knew she didn’t feel the same way for him. Not yet. God help him, every time he thought of the man she’d lain with, he wanted to gut Murtagh Ó Neill for touching her. And for breaking her heart.
Outside, he ordered a horse brought to him. When a servant returned with his gelding Lir, Davin stopped to study the slave’s face. Unlike Kieran, this slave kept to himself, his head lowered in subservience. He couldn’t even remember the slave’s name.
Not so with Kieran Ó Brannon. Fierce and selfconfident, Kieran bore his wounds with the carelessness of a warrior.
What sort of man was he? Davin had lived among servants and slaves for so long, he hardly noticed them. But Kieran Ó Brannon brought attention to himself in a manner that made him hardly fit to be a slave. It made Davin even more curious about the man’s past.
Kieran’s carving skills were startling, a master’s work. He far surpassed Seamus’s creations. How had a man with such talent come to be a slave? He couldn’t understand it.
He stopped in front of Seamus’s hut and peered inside. Kieran sat upon a bench, tapping a chisel with a wooden mallet. He remained fully focused upon the task, and it wasn’t until Davin blocked the sunlight that he looked up.
‘I haven’t finished yet.’
‘I realise that. I’d like to see what you’ve done.’
Kieran set aside his chisel with reluctance. Davin stepped closer and set his bow down, taking the carving in his hands. The face of his beloved had started to emerge from the wood. Iseult’s haunted eyes, the long hair that caressed the curve of her cheek…all of it was there. Except her smile.
Davin handed the wood back. ‘It’s a fine piece of work.’ Stepping to the side, he let the light back into the hut. ‘My men are hunting this morning. I want you to join us.’
‘I must finish this,’ Kieran argued. He picked up a bowl of melted animal fat and a leather cloth. With experienced motions, he rubbed the fat into the wood, bringing out the natural grains. It would prevent the carving from cracking.
‘It wasn’t a request.’ Davin picked up his bow. ‘I’ll supply you with weapons. Meet us at the gate in an hour.’
Davin didn’t care whether his slave wanted to go or not. He had his suspicions about the man’s origins, and he hoped to get those answers this day.
Iseult rode hard to the east, leaning into the wind. After a bit of coaxing, her friend Niamh had agreed to accompany her. The two had known each other only since the past winter, and Niamh had become a close confidant. Though Niamh bemoaned her brown hair and grey eyes, claiming that no man would ever find her beautiful, Iseult secretly thought her friend had a nice smile. She also had a sense of adventure and a tendency to get into trouble, rather like herself.
‘Are we nearly there?’ Niamh asked, slowing the pace to let her horse drink from the river. The silvery ribbon cut a path eastwards, glittering against the meadows. ‘We’ve been gone for hours. If I have to sit on this horse for another hour, my bottom will fall off.’
Mine, too, Iseult thought, but she didn’t say so. ‘If Hagen was right, it should be at the end of the river’s curve.’
‘Or if he’s wrong, we’ve come all this way for nothing.’
Iseult shrugged. ‘One more hour. And if we don’t find the rath, we’ll try again another day.’
Niamh gritted her teeth. ‘Give me a moment, won’t you? I haven’t any feeling left in my backside.’ She winced and patted her posterior. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t bring Davin with you instead of me.’ The young woman grimaced at the mention of his name. It didn’t surprise Iseult, since she knew her friend couldn’t stand Davin. Niamh made every effort to avoid him, claiming that he was far too arrogant for her tastes.
‘He had other responsibilities,’ Iseult responded.
‘More important than your child?’ Niamh scowled at the idea. ‘I’d like to know how hunting deer would be more important.’
Iseult shielded her eyes against the sun, straining to see the ringfort. ‘I didn’t tell him where we went.’
Niamh looked appalled at her confession. ‘Why not?’
Because Davin had already given up. He no longer believed in her quest. ‘Because he didn’t want me leaving Lismanagh. He is worried about the Lochlannachs,’ she added. That sounded convincing enough, didn’t it?
‘And so am I.’ Niamh shivered, eyeing the horizon. With a grudging shrug, she offered, ‘I think Davin was right. The Norsemen are fearsome, so I’ve heard.’
‘I’ve never seen one, so I wouldn’t know.’ But the memory of Kieran flashed through her mind. Raw and wild, he unnerved her, stripping away her sense of security. She wanted nothing to do with him, particularly a man so unpredictable.
‘Iseult?’ Niamh eyed her as though she’d been speaking and had received no answer.
She shook off the disorientation. ‘I’m fine.’ Forcing a smile, she added, ‘I’m glad not to travel alone. Thank you for coming with me.’
‘My father would have my head if I’d told him what I was doing. We should have brought the men with us.’
‘And who would have come?’ Iseult couldn’t think of a single man who might have acted as their protector. ‘They think I’ve gone mad.’
Niamh shrugged. ‘You’re right, I suppose. But we must return before sundown. Else Davin will send out every able-bodied man in the tribe after you.’ She opened a clay flask of mead and drank, handing it to Iseult.
‘It won’t be much further.’ Iseult drank and shielded her eyes, studying the landscape. ‘Look atop the hill. I think I can see the rath.’
‘Have you ever visited the Flannigan tribe?’ Niamh asked. ‘I’ve heard that they have nearly a hundred men and women. Several clans joined together, from what I gather, which makes them quite powerful.’
She hadn’t known. But it increased the possibility of learning more about Aidan. ‘No. But I’ve tried everywhere else. I have to go inland.’ Thus far, today’s journey was the longest she’d ever taken.
Though it was dangerous, she kept the vision of Aidan’s face within her memory. Her son’s serious blue eyes had always absorbed his surroundings. On the rare occasion of his laughter, Iseult had smothered him with kisses. The last time she’d seen him, he had not yet begun to walk. His tiny fingers had clung to hers while he struggled to march his bare feet.
I’ll find you, she promised. Somehow. If it meant travelling to the ends of the earth, she had no other choice. She only wished Davin shared in her determination. To him, Aidan was a lost babe. To her, the child was a missing piece of her heart. She could never be whole until she knew what had happened to him.
Niamh pressed a hand to Iseult’s shoulder. ‘And if you don’t find him? What will you do?’
‘I don’t know. Travel further, I suppose.’ She took another drink, not wanting to think about giving up.
They rode side by side, and with each mile, Iseult’s skin chilled. Her doubts taunted her: You won’t find him. He’s dead.
When they reached the gates, Iseult’s hands began shaking. Dread welled up inside her as she steeled herself for more disappointment. Two fierce-looking men stood at the entrance, spears in their hands. They regarded her with suspicion.
‘We wish to speak with your chieftain,’ she began, her voice revealing her fear. ‘I am Iseult MacFergus, and this is my friend Niamh.’
‘Brian Flannigan is our king, not a chieftain,’ the shorter guard corrected. ‘Is he expecting you?’
Iseult shook her head. ‘No. But I’ve some questions to ask him about my son.’
The man shrugged. ‘I’ll see if he will grant you an audience.’ Iseult waited beside Niamh, her nerves growing more ragged with each moment.
This was not a wise decision. She was grasping at sand, the granules of hope slipping from her fingertips. There was no means of visiting every tribe in Ireland, and even then she might not find Aidan. After today, she would have to alter her strategy. Never would she find her son this way, with desperate searches.
After endlessly long minutes, the guard returned. ‘Come.’ He beckoned, and they followed the guard to a large dwelling at the opposite end of the ringfort. Built of wood, and twice the size of Davin’s home, she understood what Niamh had meant about the tribe’s power.
Inside, several groups of men gathered. Iseult hung back beside Niamh, fully aware of the men watching them. Her skin rose up with goose flesh, and she wished she had not endangered her friend. Now she understood why Davin had not wanted her to travel alone. These men could harm her, and there was nothing she could do.
Too late to let her fears strangle her now. Iseult lifted her face, trying to look braver than she felt.
She waited for a time until at last the king ordered them to come forward. Iseult knelt before him and explained about Aidan’s disappearance.
‘I have been searching for him over the past year. I would know if anyone from your tribe has seen a young boy, about two years of age, who was not born to your people.’
The king considered her story. ‘Why did your husband not come with you?’
‘I have no husband. But I did not come alone,’ she added. When the king’s gaze turned shrewd, she drew closer to Niamh as if to gain support.
King Brian conferred with some of his advisers, then shook his head. ‘We have many foster-children, but their families are known to us. If your son was stolen, it is likely he was taken into slavery. If he is still alive, that is. You might wish to ask the traders.’
With a nod, he dismissed them.
Though Niamh took her hand, Iseult barely felt the contact as they walked out. She knew of many children sold into slavery, but most were born of the fudir.
Not once had she visited a slave auction. The idea of hearing the children separated from their mothers, people’s lives given over into servitude, bothered her intensely. Though Davin had never treated his slaves with anything but kindness, she’d rather have no servants at all.
‘Let’s go home,’ Niamh urged, leading her to their horses. Iseult mounted, though she was hardly aware of them leaving. Another failed chance. And now, the possibility of her son being a slave. He might be a world apart from her now, for she’d heard that the trade ships, particularly Norse longboats, often sold Irish slaves across the sea.
A light rain fell over them, but Iseult hardly noticed. Kieran had been to the slave markets. He’d travelled across Éireann. Would he have any answers for her?
Her mind flashed to the moment when his hand had touched her hair. Kieran had warned her to stay away from him, and not once had he spoken about his past.
Why would she ever think he would help her? He was a stranger, and she didn’t want to confide in him or expose herself in that way. He was the sort of man to take advantage of weakness.
But there was nothing else to be done. He was the only man with possible answers.
She had no choice but to ask for Kieran’s help.

Chapter Six
‘You wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t ordered it, would you?’ Davin asked.
Kieran strode behind Davin’s gelding. ‘I wouldn’t, no.’ He resented the time away from his work. In another two days he’d have the carving completed. He planned to smooth out the wood with sand until it was polished like the softness of a woman’s cheek. Then he would rub the surface with butter until the natural beauty of the yew emerged, along with Iseult’s face.
Remembrance tightened inside him like a curled fist. He should never have touched her. He’d meant to frighten Iseult away, but instead the encounter had shaken him. Something unexpected had flashed between them, and he didn’t want to know what it was. She was hauntingly beautiful, a woman etched into his mind like a blade into yew.
Forbidden.
He forced his mind back onto the hunting party. Without a mount of his own, he had to run lightly to keep up with their horses. Miles passed, and his muscles burned from weakness. Nonetheless, he’d not give up, not even if he collapsed to the ground. There was a sense of rightness, pushing his body to the limit. Regaining his strength and endurance, past all boundaries.
He ran alongside the horses, pain rippling through him. The lash wounds burned upon his back, but he kept on until his mind overpowered the weakness of his body.
When he inhaled the crisp air, he felt it renewing him. Life. Rebirth. The wind rushed against his ears like the whisper of his brother’s voice. As though Egan were with him still.
The loss inside numbed him. His younger brother had embraced each moment of every day. And he wouldn’t have wanted Kieran to surrender to death. It was too easy—a coward’s path.
No. He would live after enduring this penance. Thirteen weeks, he decided. One for each year of his brother’s life. He cared naught about Davin’s promises of freedom. When the time came, he would seize his own fate.
Kieran studied the landscape, noting the location of water and familiarising himself with the territory. By Lughnasa, he would have his strength back and could make an escape without being found. He would learn where the tribesmen kept their weapons and supplies.
They travelled through the valley towards another forest. The flat meadows stretched into a wooded glen. After a time, Davin slowed his horse’s pace. ‘Did the traders starve you before they brought you here?’
‘I had little desire to eat.’ He’d tried to refuse, but as punishment, they had threatened to beat a small girl in front of him. ‘If you do not eat, she will pay the price,’ his master had claimed. Though his stubborn body rebelled against the food, Kieran had choked down stale bread and water. He’d understood, then, that he held value for these men. And he cursed himself, for he had no power to set the girl free.
‘I’ve sent provisions to you,’ Davin said. ‘I expect you to use them. I’ve no use for a weakened slave.’
Kieran’s knuckles clenched in response to the accusation of weakness. Words of denial formed, but he held them back. Davin spoke the truth. He was nothing but a weakened slave. Nothing but a broken-down shadow of the warrior he’d once been.

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