Éire’s Captive Moon (3 page)

Devin eyed the older man sharply. “Greek? I’ve only heard Latin,” he said, wrapping one log-like arm around the refugee. His tone, and the toss of his head in the direction of Bangor Monastery, carried a wealth of disgust for the priests and others of their ilk. A pale shape caught his eye and he beckoned to it with his free hand. “Charis! They need your help.”

“She doesn’t look Greek,” Bran muttered under his breath, making the sign of the cross on his chest.

“She doesn’t look of this world,” Colum breathed, not in as much distress as his cousin, and able to appreciate the ethereal beauty Charis possessed. “Is she one of the
sidhe
?” he queried, sounding choked. The
sidhe
, capricious, supernatural creatures belonging neither to this world nor the Other, were not understood, but tales were told of men who had been tempted by them, or children captured and raised away from the world of men.

The warriors watched the woman approach with pride in their eyes. “
Sidhe
?” The men exchanged glances, both amused and thoughtful. “
Na, na
, not her. She’s flesh and blood.”

Colum tore his eyes from the pale woman in front of them, but it was hard. Her hair was the color of a moonbeam through the fog, her skin so clear it seemed almost transparent. When she drew near enough, he could see that even her eyes were pale—the sheen of mist on the water. Color she had, though, in the blue woad eagle tattooed on her right cheek. The woman wore an ornate dress and copper armbands that any queen would be proud to call her own. It was obvious that she was a woman of stature among her people.

If the people of Ragor
were
her people.
 

One of the dark-haired men drew his attention with a gesture. “
Na, na
. She’s our wife, so you just remember that, lad.”

“Your wife? Which one is her husband?” he asked, confused and still overwhelmed by recent events.

Charis had reached them by this time and she eyed all the men with a thin veil of tolerance. “Both of them are,” she told the man who was staring at her. His eyes grew wide and she remembered that not everyone knew the old ways. “Under Brehon Law, it is allowed to have two husbands.”

Then she dismissed the matter and gave the refugees a quick examination. “Hm. Any fevers in the last day?” she inquired of Bran.

“No, lady,” the older man answered, leaning heavily against Devin. He winced as Charis probed the deepest of his wounds. “But I’m getting dizzy.”

She arrowed a glance into his eyes that Bran felt like a hot knife.

“Honest, lady,” he said, gulping. Then, cold fingers gripping his innards, he had to ask. “Lady? Are you a . . . a druid?”

From such a delicate face came a most indelicate snort.

“Druid? Not by all the herbs in my garden,” she grunted contemptuously as she helped the older man through the gate.

Bran didn’t reply, because he was too busy eyeing the interior of the
rath
. The earthen wall of the fort surrounded the community on all sides, though it was low on the opposite side of the village, the side that had the low, sharp face of the cliff as a natural barrier. Within the sheltering walls, rounded huts of stone and earth breathed hearth-smoke through their roofs. In spite of the rain, children were working and playing beside adults, all dressed in short tunics that made it impossible to tell the girls from the boys as they chased chickens and tugged along carts with food, water, or thatch.

Until, that was, they spied their healer and chieftains bringing in strangers. Then all activity ceased as the children—and then adults—clamored for news.

“Where are you from?”

“You’ve been hurt! Was there a raid?”

“Have the Northmen come again? Are they near?” Shouts and whimpers clattered in Bran’s head until the massive warriors threatened violence if one more thing was asked.
 

“Just wait now, until after Charis has seen to them. Away with you now. See to your weapons, if you must,” Devin told the crowd.

Charis glanced up at her warriors as she assisted her patient into the large dwelling she shared with her men. “Thank you. Would one of you build up the fire? I’ll need to set some water boiling.” To the older man draped almost over her shoulders, she murmured, “There now, Bran, let’s get you over here where you can lie down. It’s a hard thing to be walking so far when you’re injured.”
 

The man stiffened in her arms as she attempted to ease him to the raised, rush-filled platform she used for her patients. “You—you said my name, lady. How’d you know my name?”

Charis frowned at him and shook her head. Sometimes she just knew things. Knowing it disconcerted others, she made her excuse without a pause. “I heard it. Now come, lie down here. I have to clean you up if I’m to see what’s wrong.”

Colum, who had followed one of the warriors into the healer’s house, allowed himself to relax at last on the mat-covered floor near the door. Gradually he felt his muscles ease from the tension they had held since the day before, when the yellow-haired Northmen had raided their village. He could still smell the smoke from the thatch of the roofs. It burned his nostrils.

And the screams! He had hidden under a pile of refuse with his injured cousin and just clenched his jaw and heard the screams of men as they were skewered, of children as they were torn from their mothers’ arms, and the cries of the women who mourned for them all.

Slavery. Colum didn’t dwell on it. He had not been able to make it stop the day before, nor would he ever. Thinking about the slaves who had been his former playfellows sent him to the brink of dark, cold despair.

The Northmen were overwhelming when they arrived; he had always heard that. They torched churches, captured monks and raped nuns. Colum crossed himself, even now that he was safe.

Safe. He leaned against the dry masonry of the wall and allowed himself to breathe the concept into his body. Yes, he was safe here. Who would not be safe, surrounded by mighty warriors? In a home that was larger than two of the one he had seen go up in flames the day before?

He breathed in the soothing aromas of sage and the dry sweetness of fresh rushes that lined the mattresses he could see. The smoky comfort of dry wood, the familiar odors of leather and earth, meats and roots, hearth and home.

He was safe. For now.

“So, Bran, let’s take a look at you,” the healer said, her voice clear and soothing. “This is just a mint wash I like to use for cleansing. You’ll feel better, I promise you.”

Bran was too fatigued to argue, though he had never heard of mint being used in anything but tea. He just stared at the pale healer, watching the way her eyes narrowed as she used the soft cloth to wipe away the offal that had dried on his clothing from when Colum had hidden him earlier. Her small nose never wrinkled at what had to be, Bran guessed, a horrible smell. She merely started cleaning at his face and worked her way down.

He let her until she tried to remove his clothing. Then he blocked her hand. “Now hold, woman. Is that right?”

Healer Charis of Ragor halted and looked back to the wariness in the man’s dark eyes. “Is what right?”

“The holy fathers would not have you stripping me naked,” he whispered. “You’re not my own physician.”
 

Charis tensed, her fingers wrapped around the stained cloth until her knucklebones showed white through her skin. “I’m a healer. Isn’t that enough?”

“You’re not with the monastery?”

“No. I’ve nothing to do with them.” She ignored his further, unspoken protests and peeled the filthy garments from his body to examine the gash in his leg.

Stitches were necessary. With a lift of her head, she murmured, “Let me call one of my husbands to help.”

One! The notion still outraged the man even while he appreciated her skill. The mint in the water had refreshed his mind and spirit, and he was able to think clearly. He decided he had to ask her.

“Why
aren’t
you with the monastery?”

She didn’t pause while arranging some thread and a needle. “I don’t want to hear about their Man-God,” she replied, her voice thin. “They insist I do. We . . . disagree.”

“But then the monks can’t bless your work!”

She snorted. “Why should they? Will their words make this mint smell different? Will their Man-God make my stitches hold more firmly? No. I rely on my herbs and my mind, that’s all.” Her eyes lifted from his leg to his face. “This is going to be painful. Do you want mandragora?”

“Mandragora? To sleep?” Bran shook his head and hardened his gut. He didn’t trust this unholy woman with the strange Greek name. “No.”

“As you wish. Here,” she went on, “a stick for you to bite down on so you don’t do yourself further injury.”
 

Across the circular dwelling, Devin knelt at the younger man’s side. “Colum, you said your name was?” Behind him, on the other side of the fire, he heard the muffled yelp from the wounded man as Charis sunk her needle into his thigh.

“
Isea
,” the other said, wincing and averting his gaze from the scene across the fire. “I’m Colum. And you are the chief of this people?”

“One of them,” Devin replied. He had brought Charis’s mint-wash to the refugee. “Here, clean yourself up a bit, lad. You’ve had a hard time of it.”

Agreement was understood as Colum wiped his face and hands with the fresh-smelling liquid. “The raid came so early,” he murmured, wishing he could wash his memory as easily as he washed his hands. “We’ve been walking since just after first light. I had to hide us.”

Devin nodded. It was a tale he had heard before. “The Northmen do not come here often,” he said, wanting to chase the haunted look from the younger man’s eyes.

“They only have to come once, Warrior.”

Devin gave wordless assent to that and rose to his feet, thinking to give the young man a rest. He was also thinking about how he could fit the newcomers into his
rath’s
defense. They would need a home, too. Who among the families under his keeping had room for two single men?

A groan of naked agony ripped through his head. He whipped around to see Devlin holding down the older man with the wicked-looking leg wound. Devin approached cautiously, seeing the firelight flicker over the gaping remainder of the sliced thigh. Worse than he had thought.

“Are you sure you don’t want any mandragora?” Charis shouted over the noise.

Her patient bit the sturdy stick in three pieces, spitting out the saliva-laden, splintered middle. Devin tensed at the disrespect given his wife, but did not interfere. Charis could take care of herself.

“No!” the man said. “Nothing that isn’t blessed by a priest!”

Charis glanced up into Devin’s eyes, and he saw her shrug and ask him silently if he would just knock the man out with his fist.

It was tempting, but Devin did not want any further trouble with the monastery. This man probably knew the monks. The warrior disliked the robed monks intensely, but he didn’t want any further confrontations with them. What they had already dealt with had been enough for two lifetimes.

By morning, all of Devin’s concerns were moot. Bran and Colum had decamped at first light, having informed Charis that they were going to Bangor Monastery.

“I only hope they’ll stay away from me,” Devlin growled as he watched the ragged departure of the refugees from the gate. “That older one didn’t even say thank you to our healer.”

Charis embraced both men with an arm around each muscled waist. “Colum did thank me,” she said quietly. “There is no debt. And no revenge either. Either of you!” she cautioned, tightening her grip on each man.

Devin decided not to worry about it. They would fight the Northmen if they had to but, with luck, the raiders would be satisfied with their work and not come farther south. He turned to his wife and playfully shoved his twin and co-husband out of the way.

“Fine! No revenge! I can think of better ways to spend the morning!”

Laughing, he hefted his wife over his shoulder and carried her, blushing, back to their home. Tossing her to their bed, he doffed his kilt and covered her with his body, pushing her tunic up past her hips while she laughingly protested.

“Devin!”

“You want me to go after those Christians?”

A gasp. “No.”

The rest of the discussion was free of actual words, but full of emotion and rough passion.

Devlin, still by the gate as the refugees disappeared into the timber line, had kept the last information Colum had shared with him to himself that morning.

“What was the Northman’s name?” he had insisted as the freckled man had wolfed down a cold stew for his morning meal.

The refugee had not wanted to reply, but he had, eventually. A hollowness overtook his eyes and voice when he answered.

“Tuirgeis. The leader’s name was Tuirgeis. And he said he’d be back.”

Chapter 2

AD 823

“Thank the Aesir and his daughters! Land!” Agnarr thrust his fist into the air in triumph. The gods were with them; they had come through the night with their goal in view.

An assertive, pleased-sounding rumble came from the man next to him. Tuirgeis, the powerful warrior and leader of this raid, had reason to be pleased. This was the first major raid he had led on his own, having proved himself to Jarl Olav’s satisfaction in years prior. Their group consisted of four
skipniu
—longships—quite respectable for a trading group.