Prologue
Monastery at Cill Dara, Éire, AD 999
It had been,thus far, the worst year of her entire life. Eva sighed deeply, setting down her white feather quill on the ink-stained table and placing her hands on her throbbing temples.
What little remained of the pale sunlight struggled to reach her workspace. The copying building, hardly larger than her own quarters had been back home, held all the materials necessary for the sisters of St. Brigit to transcribe important documents. Eva’s eyes pained her from straining so long in the failing light.
First her betrothed had died. Thefirstof her betrotheds died, she corrected herself, sending a silent prayer heavenward for their souls. They’d both gone, one after the other. Duncan had died fighting a war that need never have begun—a war he only joined because of her. Her second betrothed’s death was no accident of battle. Nay, her devil of a cousin had done the deed himself, a murderer and traitor if ever there was one. If that were all, then that would be something. But, alas, it only worsened from there. And it was all her fault.
Abbess Miriam appeared before Eva could wander down the darker turns of her mind, looking none too pleased.
“What’s the trouble?” Eva stood to greet the woman with a respectful bow.
Abbess Miriam rolled her lips inward, as though keeping in the words might render them untrue. “You have—guests.”
Eva’s heart beat faster than a bodhrán, hammering like wood against hide.
Abbess Miriam was a well-bred woman from a respected family. There was only one reason she’d refer so ungraciously to Eva’s visitors.
They must be from her aunt’s side of the family.
Picking up her woolen habit, Eva made haste out of the cramped building. It took her eyes a moment to adjust after walking out of the dark cave of a room in which she’d spent the afternoon. When she started toward the hall, where guests were received, the abbess halted her.
“They’re in the infirmary.”
Eva felt the color drain from her face. The battle. She’d known it was coming, she’d feared it for so long. Tensions, stoked, no doubt, by her wretched cousin Baeth, had steadily risen over the past months. It seemed they’d finally bubbled over like an untended pot.
“Sitric?” Eva guessed, changing direction and hurrying toward the infirmary.
“And his men. They’re making the others uncomfortable.”
Of course, they were. No one trusted the Ostmen, foreigners from the far north who had been raiding the shores of Éire for generations. They’d managed to carve out settlements along the coast, though the natives of Éire had fought mightily against such a travesty. Her cousin, Sitric, was king of one such settlement—Dyflin. “How badly is he wounded?”
“He’ll live,” Abbess Miriam grumbled, “but I don’t want them staying past the morn.”
Before Eva could reply, they’d reached the infirmary’s double doors. It wasn’t a large building, enough for five cots and a small hearth, the sisters of Cill Dara had learned long ago that hauling an injured man inside was a far easier task with wider doors.
The acrid smell of blood and sweat had Eva covering her nose the moment she entered. Six giant Ostmen sat piled up inside the small stone building.
“Cousin!” Sitric stood, covered in blood, and embraced her.
Eva pulled back to examine him, unable to believe that he could move given the amount of blood he must have lost.
“’Tis not mine,” he assured her. “Mostly.”
“He’s only suffered a nasty gash on his leg,” Abbess Miriam explained, her arms crossed tightly. She perched in the doorway, glaring at Sitric.
“What’s happened? Did Brian come for Dyflin?”
Sitric nodded, looking down at his booted feet. Silent.
“Sitric,” Eva begged, “what aren’t you telling me?”
“There’s no easy way to say this,” he mumbled, “so I’ll just out with it. It wasn’t only Brian. He came with allies, a force far greater than just his own men. Your father…” His voice trailed off tellingly.
Eva steeled herself. She could see precisely where this was headed. To the bitter end she’d expected all along. “What of my father?”
“I’m so sorry, Eva.” His voice was soft, his Ostman accent giving an endearing lilt to his words of comfort. “He tried to divide their army, but instead was swallowed by it. I couldn’t get to him.”
