Her Warrior Slave. Michelle Willingham
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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.
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