Her Warrior Slave. Michelle Willingham
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.