Kieran lifted his knife, his body poised in a defensive position. He might have lost his former strength, but he knew how to wield a blade. “Will you, now?” Slicing the weapon through the air, he invited, “Well, then, let’s see it.”
A growl emitted from the man’s throat, and he charged Kieran, aiming for his wrist. Kieran turned sideways, cutting a thin slash across the man’s forearm. Nothing serious, but an insult nevertheless.
Energy pumped through him, and he reveled in the chance to use his former skills. Long ago, he’d been one of the best fighters in their tribe. His muscles remembered how to move, though his body cried out with the pain of it. His opponent picked up the iron cauldron, sloshing its contents at him.
Kieran dodged the splash of vegetables and meat, beginning to enjoy himself. “Hungry, are you?” He kicked the slab of overcooked mutton toward the man. “Take what you’d like and get out.”
“I’ll make you eat the dirt, first.” Before he could move, the bearded man seized his wrist and struck the raw wounds on Kieran’s back. Pain shot through him, and Kieran was forced to drop the knife. He aimed a kick at the man’s groin, twisting to avoid a punch.
“Enough of this,” a man’s voice interrupted. Davin strode into the hut, stepping between them. To the red-bearded man, he ordered, “Cearul, release him.”
Sullen and grim, the man obeyed. Kieran rubbed his wrist, angry that Davin had interfered. He could have finished the fight.
“He refused our orders, Davin,” Cearul claimed. “He was supposed to bring us water.”
“I have set Kieran a more important task,” Davin said. “When he has finished with that, then perhaps he can attend to other needs. For now, I would suggest you return to your own duties. The planting is not yet finished, I believe.”
Cearul reddened, and though he glared at Kieran, he nodded. A moment later, he departed.
“Put the knife down,” Davin said. All traces of amicability were gone. “I want to see the work you completed last night.”
“You didn’t have to stop the fight.”
“I didn’t want you killing any of my men. It might have been a fight to you, but not to them.” Davin crossed his arms, pinning him with a dark glance.
Kieran forced himself to let it go. “My drawings are there.” He pointed to the board he’d left on the table. “I’ll begin working on the carving this evening.”
Davin lifted the board, revealing nothing of what he thought. “I’ll send her to you again tonight. And I want to see the completed carving within a sennight.”
Kieran supposed it could be done, if he worked every spare moment on it. But the level of detail he wanted would require painstaking work. He needed more subtle tools than these, gouges with narrow ridges and steeper angles.
“A fortnight would be more reasonable,” he bargained. “And these tools are not of the best quality.”
“A sennight,” Davin repeated. “If you are a competent woodcarver, you’ll manage even without the tools.” He returned to the doorway. “I’ll order the others to let you alone, but I’d advise you not to leave the hut without an escort. And if I find that you insult or endanger Iseult in any way, you’ll answer to me for it.” He departed, leaving the door open.
Davin’s warning did not hold idle threats. Kieran suspected the man would have no qualms about killing him, were Iseult threatened. He could respect a man for protecting his betrothed. He’d have done the same once, had anyone bothered Branna.
At the thought of her name, his gut soured. With auburn hair and laughing dark eyes, he well remembered the feel of holding her in his arms. And now Branna embraced her new husband, the way she had once welcomed him.
He forced the vision away and stared down at the drawing he’d done last night. He’d caught Iseult thinking of someone, her face wistful and filled with longing. He’d also drawn her with flashing anger, her eyes sparking hatred. She intrigued him, with her beauty and spirit.
He cleaned up the fallen meat and vegetables, wondering why she had troubled to make a meal for him. No one had done anything like that in a long while. She didn’t like him; he could see it in her eyes.
Kieran picked up the yew and began tracing the outline of her face upon the wood. Within moments, he lost himself in the work, cutting out the background with an iron gouge. The scent of freshly cut wood mingled with the morning air, and he took comfort from it. The tools cut into the creamy sapwood, etching out details.
When at last he looked up, it was midmorning. He saw that someone had left a bag of supplies just outside the door. He found bread inside and tore off a piece, enjoying the taste of the fresh grain.
Near the ringfort entrance, he saw Iseult leading a mare inside. Her face was pale, and her cheeks were wet as though she’d been weeping. Unbidden came the urge to find out what had happened.
It’s none of your affair, his conscience warned. But for a woman about to marry, he’d never seen anyone look so unhappy.
Iseultpoundedamassof clay, water spattering all over the brown léine she wore. She didn’t care. She’d released the tears, digging her fingers into the clay as though she could strangle the unknown men who had taken her son.
“I must speak with you.”
She lifted her gaze and saw Davin standing before her. His sober expression promised nothing but grim news. “What is it?”
“More raids. Father sent men to scout out what was happening. It may be the Norsemen again.”
