The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Read online

  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 believe Aidan 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 he belongs 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 if you gave me an adze or a knife?’

  Davin stared at him for a long moment, as if considering whether the threat was genuine. ‘I don’t 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 a small chest. From within it, she brought out a dagger and set it beside him.

  ‘I’m going to leave this here. And I’ll return to my own dwelling to finish my sleep, as most should do in the middle of the night.’ Deena’s voice hardened. ‘But if you truly want to die, I’ve given you the means.’