“And me!” the other chimed in. Glendon and Bartley charmed her, though the sight of them deepened the ache of loss in Iseult’s heart. Her own son Aidan would have been two years of age now.
Iseult picked at her food, her appetite suddenly gone.
“Why haven’t you wed Davin already?” Muirne asked, adding a slice of bread onto her plate. “I don’t understand why you’d want to wait until Bealtaine.”
“Davin asked me to wait. He wants a special blessing upon our marriage.” When Muirne was about to add even more food, Iseult covered her plate with a hand. “I’ve had enough, thank you.”
“I’ll eat it,” Glendon offered. Iseult slid the fish onto his plate, and the boy devoured it. Muirne muttered words beneath her breath about Iseult being too thin.
She tried to ignore the criticism. “I think I’ll take the rest of this with me and see if the slave is hungry.”
“You shouldn’t be associating with the likes of him,” Muirne warned. “He’s afudir, and people will talk.”
Iseult faltered. They would, yes. The wisest thing to do was to remain here and not to think about the slave. Likely the man would die, a stranger to all of them.
“You’re right.” When Muirne’s back was turned, she tucked the slice of bread into a fold of her cloak. “But I’m going to go for a walk. I won’t be long.”
Her friend fastened a knowing gaze upon her. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Iseult.”
She tried to muster a nonchalant smile, but it wouldn’t come. “I will be back soon.”
Outside, the moonlight illuminated a ring of twelve thatched stone cottages. The hide of a red deer was stretched across a wooden frame on one side, while outdoor cooking fires had died down to coals. The familiar scent of peat smoke lingered in the air, and the early spring wind bit through her overdress and léine. She raised her brat to cover her shoulders, seeking warmth from the shawl. Though she had only lived among the tribe since last winter, she was starting to consider the ringfort her home.
At last, she stopped in front of the sick hut. Why had she come here? The healer Deena would already have fed the slave and tended him. Her presence would be nothing more than an interference. She almost turned away when the door opened.
“Oh,” Deena breathed, touching a hand to her heart. The healer had tended members of Davin’s tribe for almost a generation, but her hair still held its black luster. Fine lines edged her smiling mouth. “You startled me, Iseult. I was just going to fetch some water.”
“How is the slave?” she asked.
Deena shook her head. “Not well, I fear. He won’t eat or drink anything. Stubborn, that one is. If he wants to die, that’s his concern, but I’d rather it not be in my sick hut.”
“Shall I speak with him?”
“If it pleases you. Not that ‘twill do any good.” Deena expelled a sigh of disgust. “Go on then.”
Iseult stepped across the threshold into the darkened room. The hearth glowed with coals, and she smelled the intense aroma of wintergreen and chamomile. The slave lay upon a pallet, his eyes closed. Unkempt black hair fell across his neck, his cheeks rough and unshaven. He looked like a demon who’d crawled from the underworld, a dark god like Crom Dubh.
But as a slave, he might have traveled across Éireann. He might have seen her son Aidan or have news. She tried to shut down the wave of hope building inside.
Don’t be foolish, her mind warned. With a countryside so vast, the chances of him knowing anything about a small boy were remote.
“Will you eat something?” she asked, kneeling beside the pallet.
He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t move. Iseult reached out to touch his shoulder.
His hand shot out, crushing her wrist. Dark green eyes flashed a warning at her, and she cried out with pain.
“Get out,” he said. The razor edge of his voice shocked her. He had none of the penitent demeanor of a slave.
Mary, Mother of God, what sort of man had Davin bought? Iseult scrambled to her feet, wrenching her hand away from his grip. “Who are you?”
“Kieran Ó Brannon. And I want to be left alone.” He rolled over, and Iseult shuddered at the sight of his raw back. The voice of reason demanded that she leave. Now, before he lashed out at her again.
“I am Iseult MacFergus,” she said calmly. “And I’ve brought you food.” She tried to keep her voice calm, though she couldn’t quite suppress her fear.
“I don’t want it.”
Most men would have been grateful to eat. Certainly a slave would have. But this man carried himself like a king, filled with pride. Steeling her voice, Iseult said, “If you don’t eat, you’ll die.”
