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
