The Warrior's Touch (20 page)

T
orches flickered, casting death shadows upon the walls of the Great Chamber. The Hall was filled with all members of the Ó Banníon tribe, soldiers whom he’d once called friends. He suspected most of the men knew of Deirdre’s treachery, but as her father was blind to it, they could do nothing but watch the fight.

Sweat beaded Connor’s forehead, his body feeling overly warm. He drew his sword with his left hand, circling Flynn. The older warrior had not suffered from age; rather, it had toughened him. Though his hair was nearly white, Flynn moved like a much younger man.

Connor gripped his sword, his stance relaxed. He awaited Flynn’s swift attack, knowing that his enemy preferred to strike immediately.

Steel flashed and he blocked the first blow from instinct. He poured every year of training, every ounce of knowledge he held, into the fight.

Flynn struck hard and with a steady hand, Connor held fast. ‘I never touched her, you know,’ he said. He wanted Flynn to know the truth, to undermine his confidence.

‘You touched nearly every woman in my fortress,’ Flynn retorted. His blade moved again, slicing toward Connor’s middle.

Connor dodged the sword and circled from the opposite side.

‘I enjoyed the company of a maid or two, but I did not dishonour them.’

For a time, it seemed that Flynn toyed with him, as if drawing out the fight. Then without warning, his blade struck with an arm-numbing blow. Connor’s wrists ached with pain, but he held steady. Flynn saw his reaction and grunted with satisfaction.

Though Connor tried to take the offensive, his efforts focused on defending himself from Flynn’s force. Each hammering blow intensified the pain.

‘You were always a good fighter,’ Flynn said, his gaze penetrating.

‘I was trained by the best.’ Connor swung his blade, metal biting against metal.

‘You’ve healed better than I thought you would.’

Connor circled his opponent, judging Flynn. They were equally matched. He was glad of it. When he brought his enemy down, all would know he had regained his full strength.

The fight continued, each testing the other for weaknesses. Then abruptly, Flynn twisted his blade to the flat side and struck a savage blow to Connor’s wrists. Pain lanced from the impact, his right hand crumpling. Struggling to grasp the hilt, Connor barely defended another harsh jolt from Flynn’s sword. The chieftain seized his advantage. He moved in, and with another violent blow, Flynn disarmed him.

Connor dove across the floor, reaching for his sword. Flynn slashed downward, the edge biting into Connor’s upper arm. But his hand found the hilt, and he lifted his blade in time to defend another strike.

‘You cannot win,’ Flynn said softly. ‘But my daughter begged for your life. I may grant her wish, so that you may be shamed before our people.’

Blood streamed down Connor’s arm, but he felt none of the pain. Behind Flynn, in front of the others, he saw Aileen. Clad in a green overdress and
léine
, she wore a simple green ribbon in her hair. He remembered the night he’d given it to her.

In her face, he saw the stark fear. Like everyone else, she doubted his abilities and believed he was going to die. Her lack of faith cut him to the bone as surely as any sword.

He had intended this fight to prove himself to her. But she saw, as the others did, that he was losing. Though he remained on his feet, the continuous twisting movements strained his wrists. His grasp slipped upon the hilt.

Seeing her sadness drained him of strength. He twisted to dodge another blow, his muscles burning.

Then she turned her back on him and left.

She would stop this fight, no matter what the cost. Aileen pushed her way through the crowd until she found Patrick. Reaching toward his waist, her hand closed over his dagger.

He gripped her wrist. ‘What do you want that for?’

‘I need it. This fight has gone on long enough.’

‘Do you intend to fight Ó Banníon yourself?’ A warning gaze filled Patrick’s eyes. ‘Do not be foolish.’

‘Not Ó Banníon. His daughter.’

Patrick released her, amusement darkening his eyes. Aileen strode back toward the dais, rage brimming within her veins. Unless she acted, Connor was going to die.

She moved toward Deirdre Ó Banníon, while the crowd jeered. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Connor on the ground, with Flynn moving in.

Stealth guided Aileen behind Deirdre. None seemed to notice the motion, for all eyes were locked upon the battle between Connor and Flynn.

In one swift motion, she seized Deirdre’s golden locks and sliced one of them off. Then her blade moved to Deirdre’s throat.

‘I think it’s time that you confessed to your father, don’t you?’

Deirdre shrieked, but Aileen kept her blade across the deceitful woman’s throat.

‘How dare you touch me? Father!’ she screamed.

Flynn’s blade halted, and Aileen suddenly realised that dozens of soldiers were ready to overpower her. Silence flooded the Great Chamber.

‘Deirdre has something she wishes to confess,’ Aileen said.

A soldier rushed forward, but Aileen pressed her blade until a thin line of blood welled from Deirdre’s throat. ‘Don’t move.’

An archer drew his bow, the arrow aimed at her. By Danu, this no longer seemed like a wise move. She’d meant to force Deirdre to confess her lies. Instead, by threatening the chieftain’s daughter, she had only endangered herself.

A man grasped her forearm from behind, and the blade clattered to the wooden floor. Aileen inhaled sharply at the pain, but the soldier wrenched her away from Deirdre.

To her shock, she saw it was Trahern.

‘We swore to keep this a fair fight,’ he said, ‘and we MacEgans keep our word.’

Before Aileen could speak, Trahern dragged her away from the dais. ‘Do not speak or else they’ll take you. Do you want to spend this eventide wearing manacles about your wrists?’

She shook her head, realising that Trahern had likely saved her life.

In the fighting circle, Connor grasped his left wrist. Torches flickered against the wooden walls, the members of the tribe encircling the pair.

Blood poured from his forearm, and he struggled to stand. Aileen clenched her hands so tightly, her nails dug into her own skin. It was like watching herself dying. She couldn’t bear it.

When Flynn advanced with his blade, Connor’s movements were sluggish. His left hand slipped, but he managed to correct the grip.

The chieftain sidestepped, and all could see Connor’s impending defeat. Trahern’s palms tightened over her shoulders, warning her not to interfere.

But how could they stand there and watch him die? Never had she felt so helpless. Flynn glanced at her, his expression merciless.

Then he raised his sword and struck a final blow.

Connor knew it was coming, but he remained motionless as the steel came down. It was as though time were frozen, the blade lowering with infinite slowness. His brother Patrick reached for his sword hilt, and Aileen buried her face in her hands.

He understood what she’d tried to do by threatening Deirdre. Thank the gods, his brother had stopped her. He did not like to think of Flynn’s punishment, had Aileen succeeded in harming Deirdre.

His gaze moved over the faceless crowd, to his shock, he saw a haunting vision of a young boy. The ethereal face of Whelon stared back, the boy’s eyes studying him. A heartbeat later, the child stood well and whole upon two legs.

Connor closed his eyes, trying to will the image away. Whelon was dead. Connor had watched him die with his own eyes.

Did that mean he was dead?

Whelon shook his head, as if in answer to the unspoken question. Connor’s hand suddenly jerked as if pulled by an invisible force. Flynn’s sword struck him, and his left hand lost its grip. A strange heat warmed his right hand.

Dimly he was aware of the blade cutting into muscle and skin, but his attention remained on Whelon. The boy moved through the sea of people until he stood beside a young girl.

A girl with his own eyes. Rhiannon.

The sight of his daughter infused him with despair and love. He didn’t want her to see him like this. She deserved a father who could give her a handsome dowry. He’d threaten any lad who dared to look at her with anything but respect.

And then his eyes met Flynn’s. Was the chieftain so very different from himself? If any man dared to touch his daughter, he’d kill him.

‘Wait—’ a woman’s voice choked. Aileen stepped forward from the crowd, tears streaming down her face. ‘Please stop. Deirdre wants to wed him.’

Flynn’s eyes narrowed in disbelief until another voice called, ‘She speaks the truth, Father.’

Deirdre rose from her chair upon the dais. ‘I think all of us have seen enough. Connor has been well punished for his dishonour. But I want him still.’

The arrogance from Deirdre’s voice infuriated Connor. How could she even think he would consider wedding her?

But Aileen’s words reached deep inside him and pressed their thorns into his heart. ‘Cease this battle, and let them wed.’ To Deirdre she added, ‘I won’t stand in your way.’

‘Is this what you want?’ Connor asked in disbelief. Was she so convinced of his loss that she would walk away from him?

‘I want you to live,’ she whispered. ‘And that will be enough.’

He wanted to go to her, to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Instead, his right hand tightened upon the hilt of his sword. Though his left hand was now useless, it was as though a strange power filled him.

‘It isn’t enough for me,’ he said, and swung his sword toward Flynn.

By God, if it took the last bit of his strength, he would win this battle. His daughter and Aileen were looking on, and he would honour them.

From deep within, he pulled the last of his strength. He ignored the slashes Flynn struck, but focused upon disarming the man who had once been his sword master.

His feet moved forward, never retreating, pushing toward the victory he could taste. With a bone-shattering blow, he lunged forward and Flynn’s sword went flying. The blade struck the earthen floor with a dull thud.

It lay out of Flynn’s reach. Connor lowered the point of his sword to Flynn’s throat.

‘Don’t—’ Deirdre cried out. She tried to run toward them, but Trahern restrained her. ‘Let go of me, son of a cur!’

Resignation lined Flynn’s face. He stared at Connor with death’s promise in his eyes. ‘Do it quickly.’

Connor had dreamed of this moment, of sinking his sword into Flynn’s heart. But then Rhiannon’s terrified cry jerked him away from revenge. The young girl’s face was frozen with fear.

He stared back at his enemy. Flynn deserved to die, for turning his men against him, for betraying him.

For believing his daughter’s words.

Connor raised his glance to Deirdre. Horrified, she shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Do you want him to die without knowing the truth?’ he asked, pressing the blade into Flynn’s throat.

Scarlet rage transformed Deirdre’s face. ‘No, I don’t want him to die,’ she snapped. ‘You are nothing but an ignorant barbarian. I don’t know why I ever thought I wanted to wed you.’

‘So be it,’ Connor said, lifting his sword as if to strike a killing blow.

‘Stop!’ Deirdre begged. She closed her eyes, fully aware that Connor held the power to end her father’s life. In a broken voice, she admitted, ‘Connor never touched me. I wanted him to, but he clung to his foolish honour.’

Regret and sadness clouded Flynn’s face. He lifted his gaze to Connor. ‘It seems I owe you an apology.’ The shame of his daughter’s admission weakened his voice.

Connor lowered his blade and opened his arms to Rhiannon. She stepped forward, hesitant, but went to his side. He put his good arm around her shoulder, sending up a silent prayer of thanks.

‘A man will go to great lengths for his daughter.’ Weariness moved over him, his body aching. He cleaned his blade and sheathed it. ‘I would ask for peace between us.’

Connor offered his hand to Flynn. The chieftain rose to his feet, gripping his arm for support. The motion sent another wave of pain through him, and he grew aware Aileen needed to tend his wounds.

‘I have another proposition for you, MacEgan,’ Flynn said.

‘And what is that?’

‘I owe you the full
eraic
, a body price for injuries done to you. But instead of silver, would you not prefer a
rath
of your own?’

The offer filled him with such hope, he wondered if he had misheard Flynn. ‘I would, yes.’

He dimly heard Ó Banníon’s terms, his vision swimming. Sounds mingled, and the pain of his injuries intensified.

Then he saw nothing more.

A
ileen raced to Connor’s side. Blood seeped from his arms, but what concerned her most was the brutal heat of his skin. A film of perspiration lined his brow, and she understood suddenly that he was fighting another battle with the invisible demons of illness.

She cradled his head in her lap. ‘I need to tend his wounds. Help me bring him to a chamber.’

‘I’ll send for our healer Illona,’ Flynn offered. He gave the orders, and Aileen fought back the fear rising inside. She did not know if she had the proper herbs with her.

As the men carried Connor’s body, she followed. To Rhiannon, she said, ‘I need your help,
a iníon
. Can you bring me elder flowers, marigold roots and some clean linen?’

‘Is it the pox?’ Rhiannon asked, her face mirroring Aileen’s fear.

By the blessed saints, she had not thought of that. Mentally she counted the days. A black terror invaded her senses. Sweet Belisama, it was possible. The harsh fever was identical to Whelon’s.

‘Go and fetch what I need,’ Aileen ordered her daughter. ‘Make haste!’

Her hands shook. She berated herself for not noticing the flush on his skin, the way he moved as if in a daze. The memory of death undermined her confidence. She hadn’t saved Whelon or Padraig. Their deaths suffused her with guilt. What if she could not save Connor? Even the thought threatened to tear her heart asunder. She needed him. He was the missing part of her, the man she’d always dreamed of.

She could not let him die. He had fought his battle against insurmountable odds and won. Now she had to do the same.

As they laid him down upon the pallet, Aileen unlaced his tunic and drew it over his head. Her hands moved across his fevered skin, searching for all wounds. Minor cuts, bruises, a rib that might be broken. She memorised every injury, searching his skin for any sign of the pox.

For now, there was no sign of a rash. But she could not breathe easily until he had healed. The pox often did not appear for several days. She could only watch and pray.

Then she noticed the swelling upon his right wrist. Just as before, the angry skin rose with a purple tinge.
The pain he must have suffered
. She would need splints for the broken wrist.

How had he managed to finish the battle? No man could have won this sword fight, not with a damaged right hand. But somehow he had.

Aileen leaned forward. ‘I know you cannot hear me,’ she whispered, ‘but I won’t let you die. Not now, after everything else. And when you awaken, we’ll heal your wrist, just as we did before.’ She smoothed his hair, wishing for some sign that he had heard her. But there was nothing.

When Rhiannon arrived with the linen, Aileen washed Connor’s skin, treating the cuts upon his shoulder and arms. One slash was deeper than she’d thought, and Aileen sent her daughter to fetch a needle and thread along with the splints.

Though her fingers moved through his skin with the detached air of experience, Aileen felt each stab of the needle. He had not regained consciousness, his body so still. Sweat lined his brow, his muscles were stiff.

She was aware of so many people watching, perhaps even their own healer Illona. But she didn’t care what they thought of her skills. All that mattered was Connor. She touched a hand to his cheek.

During the battle, she’d offered to give him up if it meant letting him live. Even the thought of Deirdre touching him made her hair stand on end.

But he’d said no. He had turned Deirdre away, his eyes locked upon Aileen. In that fragile moment, she sensed that she meant something to him. Even though he’d never said the words, she wanted so much to believe that he loved her.

By the gods, she would not give him up now.

‘Do you want the splints now?’ Rhiannon interrupted.

She nodded, and started to wrap his wrist.

‘I can help,’ Rhiannon offered. ‘I’ve done it before.’ At her daughter’s fervent plea, Aileen resisted the urge to refuse.

‘Go on, then. I’ll watch you.’ Though she still felt the desire to take over and do it herself, Aileen forced her hands to remain at her sides.

Rhiannon held the splints in place, wrapping them firmly with the bandages. Watching her with her father sent a gathering of tears in Aileen’s throat. She choked back the feelings. ‘You did well.’

The small smile on Rhiannon’s face at the words of praise bound them together. They would fight off the demons of illness together. Of a sudden, Aileen rose to her feet and turned to the folk watching. ‘Where is your healer Illona?’

‘Here I am.’ The older woman stepped forward. They stood eye to eye, each judging the other.

Aileen took a breath to steady herself. ‘Will you help me?’

A warm smile tipped at the healer’s mouth. Illona held out a bundle of dried elder flowers. ‘You may have need of these.’

It was as though the burden of responsibility slipped from her, to be shared with another person. In the past, she’d tried to shoulder every illness alone. Pride had kept her from seeking help.

But now, she watched while Illona prepared the brew, grateful to have another pair of hands. After tying off the stitches, she covered the slash on his forearm with a linen bandage.

Illona handed her a cup of cooled elder flower tea. Aileen lifted Connor’s head to drink. The liquid dribbled down the side of his mouth, and she struggled to get him to swallow.

When a second effort proved fruitless, she tried another tack. She took the liquid into her own mouth and pressed her mouth against his. Slowly, in the most intimate way, she forced him to drink it.

The touch of his lips beneath hers reminded her of the night she’d spent in his arms. Like a man who did not want to be kissed, his mouth did not respond to hers. Though she continued to help him drink, her fears intensified.

‘We can only wait now,’ the healer advised. ‘You have done all you can.’

This was the part Aileen dreaded, surrendering control to fate. She did not let him lie alone upon the pallet, but instead she rested Connor’s head in her lap, her back supported against the wall.

Outside the window, the sky had turned black. No stars dotted the midnight sky, and Aileen wondered how long she’d been with him. It seemed like only moments, and yet Rhiannon’s eyelids drooped.

‘Go to sleep,
a iníon
,’ she urged. ‘I’ll stay awake with him.’ At the questioning look in the healer’s eyes, Aileen added, ‘I would like to be alone with him for a time.’

‘I will be just beyond the door,’ Illona replied, leaving them.

‘He fought bravely,’ Rhiannon said. ‘Even with his broken hands.’

‘He did. You should be proud to have him as your father.’

A worried expression wrinkled across Rhiannon’s mouth. ‘I still think of Eachan as my father.’

‘He was, sweeting. In every way, save blood.’ She offered a tender smile. ‘Not every girl is blessed to have more than one father.’

Rhiannon sat beside her, and took Connor’s malformed right hand in hers. ‘He is a stranger to me.’

‘But you gave him strength. Did you not see how much you helped him? It did him good to see you there.’ Aileen was grateful to Bevan for fetching her, though she had worried about Rhiannon’s safety.

Aileen covered Rhiannon’s hand with her own, the two of them seated with Connor in the middle. A sense of rightness encircled her heart, being here with those she loved most.

Hours passed and her throat grew dry. Rhiannon curled up beside Connor and slept. Aileen held Connor, her back aching and limbs sore from the position. But she could not let him face this struggle alone.

Perspiration beaded across his forehead, pain etched in the lines across his mouth. Aileen kept wiping his brow, speaking to him in low tones.

Then when the darkness faded into the deep grey of morning, Connor began to tremble. With great effort, his eyes opened.

‘I’m here,’ she whispered to him. Though she tried to cool his burning skin with her hands, inwardly she knew it could do nothing for him.

‘Am I dead?’ he asked. When she shook her head, his mouth tried to curve upward. ‘This was not what I intended when I dreamed of waking in your arms.’

She helped lift him up until she could face him. His eyes held the sheen of fever, his body struggling to regain its control. ‘My arm hurts.’

Aileen lifted the bandage, but there was no sign of swelling. The wound was clean, neatly stitched closed. But if he was in pain, perhaps she should treat it again.

‘I’ll make a wash for it,’ she said, easing him back on to the pallet. The marigold roots or perhaps iris. Her mind raced with every cure she could think of, or perhaps Illona Ó Banníon knew more. She would ask.

‘Don’t go,’ he said, reaching for her. ‘If I’m to die, this is where I’d like to be.’ He tilted his head. ‘Of course, the best death would be to die with you naked beneath me.’

Aileen’s cheeks flamed and she glanced at her daughter sleeping. ‘You aren’t going to die.’

‘I might,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you should take me somewhere that I could have my last wish. I’m afraid you would have to be on top, as I am in a delicate condition right now.’

His voice was a combination of the teasing rogue she knew so well and a slight hint of seriousness.

‘You are in no condition for that,’ she retorted, though her body warmed at the image of him grasping her hips, filling her.

‘We cannot be sure. I think you should ask Rhiannon to leave. If you tend me without wearing your clothes, I might get better.’

The warmth in his eyes filled her with hope. He was not as hurt as she’d believed. Were it the pox, he could not be so lighthearted. Relief rushed through her, along with exhaustion.

She leaned close to him, until her nose touched his. ‘I promise you that I’ll wear nothing at all, as soon as you’ve healed. So perhaps you’d best get started.’

His hand cupped her cheek, and he turned serious. ‘I love you, Aileen.’

She couldn’t stop the tears then, the joy that he was finally hers. He stroked her hair, and she kissed him softly. ‘I love you, too.’

The ring fort was not as large as she’d hoped for, but Connor seemed well pleased with its location. Resting on the crown of a hill, the land stretched to the river boundary. A stone wall surrounded the
rath
, with four small huts inside.

‘It’s not the fortress you dreamed of,’ Aileen said, afraid of his disappointment. Flynn Ó Banníon had kept his word, granting them the land as payment for Connor’s injuries. ‘It would not be large enough for a tribe of your own.’

‘I don’t need a tribe of my own,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Flynn has asked me to train his new soldiers. We will live here, and the lads will learn to wield a sword under my instruction. You can tend their wounds, for there will be many of them.’ He lifted his gnarled hand, smiling, though Aileen did not miss the flash of regret on his face. ‘I may not be the warrior I once was, but I still have the knowledge. And it’s enough for me to pass it on.’

He drew her to him, caressing the curve of her cheek. Aileen touched her forehead to his, almost afraid to believe that at last he loved her.

‘One day I’ll teach our sons,’ he said.

She wanted to believe it so badly. ‘What if I cannot give them to you?’

He kissed her, love passing between them in the soft embrace. ‘Even if Rhiannon is our only child, I would call myself blessed. But I plan to try often to give you more children.’ Wickedness flashed in his eyes, coaxing a smile to her lips.

‘I am sorry I did not tell you about our daughter sooner,’ Aileen said.

He nodded acceptance, and in his eyes she saw forgiveness. ‘One day she will know me as her father.’

Aileen squeezed his hand, staring out at the verdant meadows rising to meet the edge of the grey sky. ‘She will.’

As if he sensed the sadness lingering within her, he asked, ‘Do you miss Banslieve?’

‘I do.’ She braved a smile. ‘But I belong with you, at your side. I’ll join Illona as another healer for the people.’ Though it still hurt to think of her banishment, it was time for both of them to begin anew.

Connor led her inside the ring fort, startling her when he stopped in front of a granite standing stone. The megalith stood at Connor’s height with a fist-sized hole drilled through the centre. Her heart pounded, for she knew what he was about to do.

He reached inside the rock, joining their hands in the ancient marriage rite. ‘
Gráim tú
,’ he murmured, caressing her fingers with his own. The worn stone surrounded their hands, and Aileen could almost imagine the thousands of men and women who had joined their lives together over the centuries in this way.

A tear of joy spilled down her cheek. ‘As I love you,’ she answered.

‘Can you accept a broken man as your husband?’ he asked.

Aileen smiled through her tears. ‘You are whole in my eyes,’ she whispered. ‘And you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted.’