Her Warrior Slave. Michelle WillinghamЧитать онлайн книгу.
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