shook his head. ‘I can’t be certain. We prepared the guest house, in anticipation of their arrival, but you and your companion have been the only folk we saw.’
How could it be that not a single person had taken sanctuary in the abbey? The fear she’d held back was starting to intensify. She’d wanted to believe that she could bring Jilleen back home, that they could find their place again and start over. But it was more likely that everyone was gone.
She looked into Brother Chrysoganus’s sympathetic brown eyes. ‘My travelling companion, Trahern MacEgan, went to look for my sister. He promised to return at sunset.’
‘I will see to it that accommodation is prepared for him.’ The monk inclined his head in a silent farewell as he took his leave.
After he’d left, Morren rose. Though her body ached and she still felt weak, she forced herself to walk to the tallest point of the abbey grounds. She needed to see her home, though it had been destroyed.
Each step was a struggle, and when at last she reached the topmost point of the hill in front of the abbey, she peered down and saw a rider approaching, a spear in his hand.
But it wasn’t Trahern.
Gunnar Dalrata knew he’d been followed. It was only out of sheer luck that he’d happened to see the grass ripple before his eyes, otherwise he’d not have seen the intruder watching them from outside the cashel.
He gripped his spear tighter and eyed his brother. Hoskuld didn’t seem to notice, but Gunnar remained a few paces behind. Glancing backwards, he spied the runner.
An Irishman. Had he been one of the Ó Reilly survivors?
Gunnar thought about alerting Hoskuld, but for what purpose? The Irishman had done nothing, except observe. He might have been looking for the girl they’d taken yesterday.
They crested the hill, and still the man pursued them. Was he planning to follow them to the settlement on foot? With another glance, Gunnar saw that the intruder had stopped at the top of the hill. Moments later, the man turned back.
Gunnar brought his horse alongside Hoskuld’s. ‘Someone was following us. I want to know why.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No. The man is on foot and unarmed from what I can tell. I want to question him.’
‘Bring him with you,’ Hoskuld suggested.
Gunnar’s expression turned grim. ‘I might.’ He quickened the pace of his mount, riding hard. He was about to overtake the Irishman when he happened to look up. The man was moving in the direction of St Michael’s Abbey, and in the distance, he saw the reason.
A woman stood at the top of the hill in front of the abbey. She was waiting for the man, and as Gunnar rode past, he saw the sudden fear and fury overtake the man’s expression.
It intrigued him. Perhaps the best way to get his answers was to await the man at the abbey. With his spear gripped in his hand, he rode up the hill to St Michael’s.
He saw the woman at closer range then. With fair hair and a quiet sort of beauty, her face would make any man want to fight for her. But when she caught sight of him, she fled.
Gunnar wheeled his horse back, keeping his spear aloft. When the Irishman arrived, he would be waiting.
Trahern tore up the hillside, his legs taking long strides. Anger gave him a speed he normally wouldn’t have. By God, he’d murder the Viking where he stood if he laid a hand on Morren.
It was the longest mile he’d ever run in his entire life. Fear punctuated his stride, along with guilt at having left her. Jesu, he shouldn’t have let Morren remain behind.
As he reached the top, he saw Morren disappear towards the chapel. Thank God, she’d had the good sense not to remain. He hardly felt his own exhaustion as he lunged towards the waiting rider. Energy roared through him as he seized the man’s spear and tossed it aside, dragging the Viking from his horse.
His enemy weighed nearly as much as he did, and Trahern grimaced when the man used his own strength to knock him to the ground.
‘I don’t like being followed,’ the man remarked, his voice heavy with a Norse accent. He twisted, wrestling Trahern to the side.
‘Neither do I.’ Trahern grunted, throwing the man off him. When the Viking stood up straight, he was startled to realise that they were the same height. Few men were as tall as himself, and even fewer possessed his strength.
The man’s gaze narrowed, and both of them saw the resemblance at the same time.
‘You’re one of us, aren’t you?’ the foreigner murmured. ‘I didn’t expect it.’
Trahern unsheathed his sword. ‘I’m not a damned Lochlannach, no.’
‘Then you haven’t looked at yourself recently.’ The man drew his own sword. ‘Why were you following me?’
‘Where is the girl?’ Trahern countered, swinging his weapon hard. The Norseman met his blow, blocking it.
A long blade came arcing towards his head, and Trahern sidestepped to avoid it, deflecting the slice with his own weapon.
‘I suppose you mean the one we found at the cashel yesterday,’ the man replied. ‘She’s at our settlement. But I don’t know if I’ll let you follow us there. Not with the kind of welcome you’ve given me.’ He lunged forward, his blade thrusting at Trahern’s gut in a physical challenge.
Trahern parried it, steadying his balance before he renewed the attack. He focused upon the fight, letting his training flow through him, meeting blow for blow. Sweat gleamed upon his skin, but he drove the man back.
When his blade nicked his opponent’s shoulder, satisfaction rippled through him. He’d been waiting half a year for this. He only wished he could fight against the other invaders, killing all of them.
He poured his rage, his grief, into the fight. It didn’t matter to him that they were standing upon holy ground, that it was a sin against God to fight here. This man had slaughtered innocents, like Ciara. He’d violated women, and he deserved to die.
Behind the Viking, he spied Morren walking slowly. The folds of her gown draped over her thin body, and she gripped the edges of the borrowed cloak. The hood had slid down, revealing her golden hair. Fear and horror washed over her face.
It renewed his strength, and Trahern slashed a brutal blow toward his enemy’s blade, sending the weapon spinning until it landed in the grass. The man’s look of surprise changed to grim acceptance, when Trahern grasped him by the hair, fitting his sword to his enemy’s throat.
Staring hard at Morren, Trahern demanded, ‘Did this man dishonour you?’
Chapter Four
All the blood had left her face, and Morren knew without question that the Viking was going to die at Trahern’s hands. His life depended upon her answer.
‘No,’
