Blinding pain coursed through his hand and wrist from the crushing impact. A cry tore from his throat when they struck his other hand. Thanks be, he’d lost consciousness after that.
But the healer’s torment far outweighed that of his enemy’s. He didn’t remember how he had escaped, but Ó Banníon’s parting words burned in his mind. ‘Now you’ll never touch another woman again.’
The healer set another bone, and he gasped with pain. ‘Have a care.’
‘I am nearly finished.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Then I’ll start on your other hand.’
The other hand? Sweet Jesu, the woman had been sent by thesibh dubhto plague him. Dark spirits held more mercy than her. Never had he known such torture, the excruciating anguish in his hands. He kept his eyes closed, trying to block out the pain.
‘Where am I?’ he asked, breathing slowly to avoid the searing ache in his ribs.
‘Don’t you remember? You were fostered here at Banslieve. With the Ó Duinne tribe.’
He had not visited the lands of his foster family since he was a lad of seventeen. He had fond memories of Banslieve.
Connor studied the woman who had tended his wounds. Her braided hair resembled the deep brown of a polished wood, her eyes a soft grey-green.
‘Your name is Aileen?’ he asked.
At her assent, he wondered if she was the same young girl who rarely spoke and hid in the shadows. ‘I remember you.’
She stared at him, and for a moment he thought he saw accusation in her eyes. The flash of anger disappeared and grew calm. ‘It was a very long time ago.’
‘Where is Kyna?’ At his mention of the ancient healer, he caught a look of sadness in Aileen’s eyes.
‘She died last winter. I am the healer now.’
‘Is there another healer in the village?’ He didn’t trust Aileen; she was far too young to know Kyna’s healing methods.
‘No.’ Her lips pursed with angry pride. ‘I am the only one.’
He cared not if he offended her. If his bones were not set properly, he could lose the use of his hands. Being a warrior was his life. He closed his eyes as searing pain throbbed in his hands.
Flynn Ó Banníon had chosen Connor’s punishment, believing false witnesses. And all for a crime he hadn’t committed. Fury burned within him, along with the pain of betrayal. Flynn had once been a friend to him, as well as a sword master.
‘How bad is it?’ he asked.
‘How bad is what?’
‘My hands. Will I regain the use of them?’ He needed to know whether he would lose his hands. His skin prickled, suddenly cold with fear.
‘I do not know.’
He stilled. All his life, he’d been a warrior. He’d fought in battles against the Normans, against enemy tribes, until his sword was a natural extension of himself.
‘What of my sword? Will I be able to fight again?’
He tried to sit up, but a gentle hand pushed him back. ‘Again, I do not know. But you have your life, and for that you should be thankful.’
Even as she answered, the icy hand of Fate taunted him. There was no life he could imagine, save that of being a soldier.
‘Sleep now,’ Aileen whispered, lifting a potion to his lips. He drank the bitter liquid, feeling as though he were made of stone. For if he could not wield a sword again, he was as good as dead.
Chapter 2
