Her Warrior Slave. Michelle Willingham

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      ‘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.

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