Her Warrior Slave. Michelle Willingham
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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