It suited her. As he stretched his fingers to push away the numbness, he realized he’d enjoyed this challenge. Though he would have to give the carving to Davin, the piece had taken his mind off the past.
Twelve weeks of slavery remained. At the end of his self-imposed servitude, would he find absolution? Somehow he doubted if there would be any peace.
Last night, he hadn’t been able to avoid being noticed, nor had he performed the tasks of a slave with adequate humility. He’d resented every moment of it. Which was, he supposed, the point of a sacrifice.
He opened a small cask of butter and used it to smooth the finish of the wood. As he forced the natural oils into the surface, he thought again of what he would do after he left Lismanagh.
He wanted to find a place where no one knew him, where he could abandon his heritage and rank. They would believe him, if he said he was nothing but a common woodcarver. No one had to know the truth.
He had no desire to see his father Marcas again. Kieran had sold himself into slavery, intending to rescue Egan. A part of him had believed Marcas would follow them, sending tribesmen to bring them both home.
But no one had come. Months had passed, and he hadn’t seen a single man. He understood, then, that there was no going back. They didn’t want him to return.
Kieran set the figure aside, wrapping it in linen. Then he opened the door fully, squinting at the brightness. It was not dawn but rather, mid-morning. He’d worked until the lamps burned out, but by then, he’d had enough sunlight to continue. Perhaps he should feel exhausted, but he’d been so caught up in the work, it had renewed his energy.
Outside, he found another sack of supplies containing bread, venison, and more wine. Apparently, Iseult had sent them, not Davin. Had she brought food to him over the past few days?
He didn’t know why that bothered him. As Davin’s intended wife, perhaps it was one of her duties to see to his slaves. Even so, while he broke his fast, he couldn’t help but recall her plea for information last night. He doubted if he could help her. He’d seen as many children as adults in the slave markets. Finding a particular boy would be impossible.
Enough. He closed his mind off to Iseult. The time had come to give Davin the carving and to sever all contact with Iseult. He put the wooden figurine inside a fold of his tunic and walked toward Davin’s home.
In the distance, past the ringfort, he saw a small stone chapel. Beyond the chapel, the rich soil had been tilled in preparation for planting. He could envision the green seedlings sprouting from the earth.
Around him, the familiar sounds of people reminded him of what he’d missed in the past few moons. Children laughing as they chased dogs around. The scent of peat fires and animals in their pens. Goats bleating while they were caught for milking. Sounds that reminded him of home. He ignored the slash of pain in his heart.
Neasa Ó Falvey caught sight of him, her long black hair caught up in a tight linen head covering. She wiped her hands upon herbratand raised her hand. “You there. Davin’s slave. I need you to go and see to the sheep this morning.”
Kieran ignored her orders, searching for a sign of Davin.
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Neasa demanded, her hands upon her hips.
“I heard. But I am ordered to bring something to your son Davin.” He continued walking without listening to her.
“I know where he is,” a voice interrupted. Orin caught up to him, adding, “I’ll take you there.” He glanced back at his foster-mother and increased his pace to get away. Kieran imagined the young man was more than eager to end his fostering.
Neasa did not bother to hide her irritation, grumbling beneath her breath as the two of them left. Orin led him outside the ringfort and pointed to a group of men on horseback. “There he is.”
Kieran raised a hand to shield his eyes and saw Davin mounted upon a dun gelding. “Where are they going?”
“He’s speaking to the scouts he sent out a few days ago. They went to the coast to track the Norse invaders.”
Kieran tensed. He’d had his own dealings with the Norsemen and Danes. Harsh memories pierced his gut, as he remembered the hand that had drawn a blade across Egan’s throat. He’d taken his vengeance upon the raiders, but none of it would bring Egan back. “What do they want?”
Orin shrugged. “Land. Wealth. Our women, I suppose.”
The prizes of conquest. Kieran’s hands clenched into fists as he followed the young man down to the others. One of the messengers was reporting his findings.
“It’s a small group, possibly thirty men,” the man said. “Their ship was anchored near Baile na nGall. They’ve set up a temporary camp outside the ruins.”
“Any survivors?” Davin asked.
“If there were, they’ve left. We stayed away from the Norsemen and watched. It looks like they intend to travel further inland. They were gathering more supplies when we returned.”
“How many horses did they have?” Kieran asked.
The men’s faces swung toward him in surprise. Likely they weren’t accustomed to slaves speaking. He didn’t care. The number of horses would tell how many high-ranking soldiers were among them.
The messenger glanced at Davin, who nodded. “There were five.”
