Éire’s Captive Moon (10 page)

“All right,” she said, too loudly. “I’m ready.” It was her stance more than her words, she was sure, that alerted her guards. She threw her shoulders back and kept her eyes focused straight ahead of her. If she dared to let her gaze wander, she’d be overcome with memories . . . memories so excruciating she would want to mix some herbs for herself and send her body to the earth.

The lead Northman guard pointed for her to leave the dwelling. She hesitated and swallowed back her bile. He shoved her then, a sharp pressing of his callused hands between her shoulder blades. She hissed, stumbling over her loosened sandals and almost falling to the rushes near the door. Another intruder snatched her upright before pushing her forward more gently.

Clenching her jaw, she moved forward again, carefully ignoring all that was going on around her. The smoke from the scattered battlefire, whimpers of the violated, all went unheeded. She did take heed of the inner trickle of relief that no babies were heard crying, but that was all. Step by step she made her way to where Branieucc’s son waited with the invader.

Her captor smiled benignly at her, as one might to a favored pet. She saw where a gaping wound split his face when he smiled, and was glad in her heart.

“Healer? You are to work immediately, and then the leader here will tell you your fate.”

“So if he dies, will
he
kill me?” Charis asked, bending to the wounded man’s side. “Death would be welcome,” she finished, her voice as empty as her eyes while she measured out the mandragora for her patient.

It was tempting to give him too much. Tempting to kill him with the drug. But no, she would save that pleasure for their leader. The braided man who had killed her husbands.

It had been her spear that had taken his helmet. It would be her skills, she vowed, that would take his life.

Chapter 7

Charis fought within herself as she treated the leader of the invaders. Agnarr, the man who had stolen her life when his blade took the lives of Devin and Devlin. Her whole body tensed with the desire to kill this man, to revenge herself and all her people.

Cowan, from the west, had perhaps discerned this. He had stayed at her left side as she was treating the invader. While pretending to lean in to see her stitching, he had slipped her knife right out of the rawhide sheath at her waist. Angry, she moved to stop him, but his knowing look stopped her instead.

“Wait,” the son of Branieucc had cautioned her almost silently. “Wait. I have a plan.”

Then the big, hairy leader had barked something and Cowan spread his hands to soothe their captor.

Devin would have strangled them both,
Charis thought. And then she had to clench her eyes shut to the pain. Her hands stilled but then resumed their work.

“Charis,” her new patient growled gutturally at her as she took a needle to thread the man’s skin flaps together.

Charis wanted to pretend she didn’t understand, but her own name was difficult to avoid. She was far too occupied with pushing her desperation, fear and anguish down deep. For answer, she met the frightening, powerfully direct blue eyes.

He shook his head and grabbed her wrist. Not painfully, she had to admit. Firmly. “
Né
,” he said. Repeating the syllable, he shook his head once more.
No
.

She understood and jerked her hand out of his loosening clasp. No stitching the wound together? How did he expect her to heal him?

Barbarian
.

Therefore, she had merely packed the wound with powdered willow bark and bandaged him, wrapping strips of linen around his jaw and head to anchor the cloth. She had not hurt him further.

No, that would wait, she decided now, as she sat tied to a tree. No one was watching her, she hoped.
 

Devin! Devlin!
She could let her tears flow freely. Their bodies were now being hefted to the top of a heap. “No!” she screamed, her voice raking through the death-charged air with ragged edges. “No! Don’t!”

Wails rose from all the captives as the pile of their dead was set ablaze by laughing Northmen. Charis shut her eyes, wishing she could find oblivion.

“Healer,” Prince Cowan called from where he was bound, a body’s length away. “Was that your husband?”

Charis almost didn’t answer, for she saw her fellow islander as an extension, of sorts, of the Northman who had killed her men, because he was speaking for them. Ducking her head to wipe her eyes on the soiled shoulder of her
léine
, she coughed to try to clear her throat. “Two of them, yes. He
murdered
them!”

Her red-bearded countryman expressed his sorrow, but she didn’t know if he was sincere or just trying to get her to stop crying. Men hated tears.

Her grief turned inward in the next moment. Men. Her men. The braided Northman might have murdered them, but it had been she herself who had set them up for that.

Her mind started spinning and her tongue felt numb. Her eyes rolled back and—

Oblivion came at last.

Cowan closed his eyes in brief prayer when the healer lost consciousness. Why had the monk at the monastery called her a witch? Cowan did not know and did not want to think that one as fair as she was could be a witch. He hadn’t seen her use any magic on the wounded young man. Yet, the beardless Northman was now being eased onto a blanket, waving slowly and laughing at some jest. Had he truly been on the edge of death earlier?

Is she a witch? Could she have healed him without the devil’s help?

Cowan shook the question off and instead fingered the sharp dagger he had taken from the pale-haired woman. A God-given opportunity had presented itself and Cowan had to fight to suppress the fierce smile that threatened.

He darted a look around. Agnarr was occupied with seeing to what scant treasure might be found in such a village. Cowan almost snorted at the futility of that. What had the Northman come here for anyway? The monasteries were where the treasure of Éire rested.

Agnarr was not heeding
him
. That was what mattered. Neither was Agnarr’s second-in-command. Cowan slid the knife from its hiding place under his leather belt. He had kept himself bent over since he had taken it from the healer. Sweat broke on his brow as he tried to keep his movements secret and small.

When the edge of the knife was sawing at the rope that bound him, Cowan felt hope flood his heart and he thanked the Lord. As silently as he could, he hid the edges of the rope under a protruding root. The healer stirred and he froze, wondering what he would do if she awakened. His time was short; he had to leave now if he were to affect an escape.

He silently promised the new widow to avenge her husbands, even if he was not able to save her from bondage. With another stealthy glance around, he stole away from the tree.

“
Hei
!” he heard. A brown-bearded Northman who was counting other captives pointed in his direction.

“Lord God!” Cowan breathed and he prayed for swift feet as he ran around the village to the tree line and safety.

The descent from the
rath’s
rise was the toughest part. He heard his feet pound on the grassy ground as he left the burning stench of dead villagers behind him. His heart thudded in his head. At first he’d intended to run and keep running until he’d reached his father’s lands. Then he remembered Martin. He couldn’t leave the gentle monk alone. Martin had been wounded and might be killed.

Cowan paused, breathing deep and thinking. He had vowed to get Martin out of this, hadn’t he? He eyed the monastery, considering. If he ignored Bangor Monastery, he could reach his father’s home by nightfall. The way through the trees was well known to him. The landmark boulders near the council fire would show him where to find his father if the trees had, by chance, been cut down while he’d been away.
Yes
.

But Martin . . . Can I leave him behind? As a brother in Christ, can I do so?

He felt his teeth grinding, and shook his head. His hands had fisted up, too, so he made them relax. Martin or Branieucc? Martin or Branieucc? There was no doubt in Cowan’s mind that if he abandoned Martin now, the monk would be dead. The Northmen would see to that.

Or was it desperation that made him think so?

“Martin,” he finally decided on half a groan, regret tugging at his heart as he thought of his father’s warriors. “Lord, help me.” He gritted his teeth and turned around.

Smoke rose from within the walls that surrounded the monastery. As Cowan drew near, breath coming in dry gasps, he could hear the mocking laughter of the Northmen, the helpless pleas of the monks who were begging for their lives or for the leaves of their illuminated manuscripts to be left; even if the marauders took the precious goblets, jewels, and silver chasings that were worked into leathern covers. A more noxious smoke soon pressed itself into Cowan’s awareness: the stench of burning flesh.

“Oh,” he moaned under his breath. “Lord, no. Not again.” He reminded himself that the men of God had died nobly, defending their honor and the honor of their home and God, but still, it did not lessen the sickening ache he felt.

He swallowed that down. Martin. He had to focus on Martin.

Pressing himself against the outer wall, Cowan peered around the raggedly vacant hole where the gate used to stand. The monk, Brother Alain, who had opened the gate for them only that morning, was standing now with his hands tied behind him, a huge gash dripping blood from the tonsured spot of his head. Inside, Cowan felt the impulse to free all the bound monks, but he knew that was impossible.

Where was Martin?

A harsh roar caught Cowan’s attention and he stepped around the splintered post that had once anchored the wooden gate. The dark-haired leader, Tuirgeis, was shouting. At Martin.

“Fool!” Cowan hissed. The monk had found a font of courage within himself, but it was going to get him killed.

Martin stood there, cradling his mangled arm in the good one, feet planted firmly in front of a pile of yet-unburned codices. Cowan felt himself grow cold with a foreknowledge of what would happen to his friend.

Tuirgeis towered over Martin, and even from across the blackened courtyard, Cowan could see the leashed power emanating from the invading leader’s shoulders. The Northman’s muscles rippled as he lifted his arm. It seemed slow, to Cowan, as if Tuirgeis were wanting to give Martin a chance to shut his mouth about the manuscripts.

“These are sacred to the living God!” Martin was shouting. “If you touch them, you will be cursed!”

“Your god is dead, priest,” the Northman proclaimed. Then he struck Martin down with the back of his hand. It didn’t appear as if it even cost him an effort, Cowan thought.

He kept his jaw clamped with determination. Maybe, maybe Martin would learn and not say anything more.
Submit
, Cowan thought hard at his friend.
Just be quiet and submit!

Though sprawled in the dust, Martin somehow found the strength to angle himself up. Against his will, Cowan abandoned the relative safety of his hiding spot and stepped away from the wall. Summoning something deep inside, he called out.

“Tuirgeis!”

The leader turned slowly, surprise evident in his face even from a distance. A hush fell over the courtyard as the captives ceased their prayers and the raiders watched their commander. “King’s Son,” Tuirgeis said in his coarse Latin. “What are you doing here? You were to be with Agnarr, finding the woman.”

So that’s what they had wanted with him? To find the pale healer, Charis? Well, he had. “I did find her, sir,” he said, reminding himself that he was a king’s son in truth. “She aided your men with her healing arts.”

To Cowan’s intense relief, the leader left Martin to cross the courtyard. The other Northmen continued to watch the leader, and Cowan prayed that Martin would keep silent. “So the moonbeam healer was found, eh?” Tuirgeis seemed privately amused by this.

“
Ja
,” Cowan replied, remembering the proper word. “She was,” he went on in the Northman’s tongue.

Tuirgeis was clearly impressed, as Cowan had hoped he would be. He thanked the good God above for letting him be quick with languages. “Good. Agnarr will be grateful to have her,” the leader went on in Latin. “We will go now. We have
trells
, treasure and the healer. It is time. We must go while the seas hold true.”