“Iseult,a iníon, it’s good to see you.“ He brought her inside, and she saw her mother sitting by the fire, her needle moving through a woolen garment. Unlike Da, her mother did not get up to embrace her. Instead, Caitleen’s mouth drew into a disapproving line, and she continued sewing.
Rory guided her to sit down and poured her a cup of mead, which Iseult accepted gratefully. “And where is Davin? Seeing to the horses?”
“He is still at Lismanagh, I expect.” Her glance flickered toward Caitleen, who still had not voiced a single word of welcome.
“He let you come alone?” Rory was aghast at her admission. “I can’t believe it.”
Iseult faltered a moment, but managed to gather her thoughts together. She had hoped for more time before telling them the truth. Best to get it over with, she supposed. “I decided not to marry him, Da,” she admitted quietly. “I would not have made him a good wife.”
Her mother’s hands stopped moving, her eyes glittering with anger. “I knew you were too foolish to know a strong match when we found it for you. A more ungrateful girl, I’ve never met.”
“Caitleen—“ her father warned.
“Well, she is. Davin Ó Falvey was the best marriage we could have arranged for her, and she turned him away.” Caitleen tossed her sewing in a basket. “If she wants to go and marry a farmer, so be it. I won’t be responsible for her future any more.”
“Iseult may choose whatever man she wishes,” Rory argued. “She does not need a chieftain for a husband.”
Caitleen shook her head, returning her attention to her sewing. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Iseult kept her spine straight, not letting her mother see how much the words hurt. “May I stay with you for a time, Da?” she asked quietly.
Rory put his arm around her shoulders. “Of course. You are always welcome here.” But his eyes turned bitter when he glanced at his wife.
Though Caitleen might have given birth to her, Iseult had never been close to her mother. She didn’t understand why her father remained married to the woman. Caitleen had never forgiven him for being content as a blacksmith, her ambitions ever rising.
“Have you aléineI could borrow?“ she asked her mother quietly. All of her clothing was soaked from the hard rain and would take time to dry.
Wordlessly, her mother opened a trunk and handed her a gown. Iseult thanked her and moved behind a small partition, stripping off her clothing. When she stood naked, her mind recalled Kieran’s touch upon her body. She regretted none of it. She wished desperately to feel his arms around her, to smell the faint hint of wood that surrounded him. To lie in his arms and love him.
Saint Bridget, it was lonely without him. She pulled the dryléineover her body, but the clothing did little to make her feel better. From her cloak, she withdrew the wooden carving, for at least she had something that had been close to Kieran. She ran the edge of her thumb over the carved lines, before at last putting it away.
When she joined her father by the fire, Rory handed her a bowl of mutton stew. She picked at the food, though she hadn’t eaten since this morn.
“Have you learned anything about Aidan?” she asked.
Her father shook his head. “I wish I had better news for you,a stór. But no one has seen or heard anything about your son.”
“Could he have been taken into slavery?” she asked, staring hard at the fire. Her eyes remained dry, her feelings drawn tight by the barest sense of control.
“I don’t believe so. Usually only the Norsemen capture slaves. We’ve seen none of theLochlannachnearby.”
He didn’t know. Iseult set her bowl down, her blood racing at the thought of the Norse. If the raiders had anything to do with Aidan’s disappearance, she had to find them.
“The Norse landed on the far side of the bay only weeks ago,” she admitted. “They attacked Lismanagh.”
“Was anyone hurt?” Rory asked. He took the bowl from her, worry creasing his face.
“We lost some of the tribesmen. Several were . . . wounded.” The blade of memory slashed her again as she thought of Kieran. She swallowed hard, closing off her mind from the bitterness. “I should search again,” she said. “You’ve not seen the raiders this far inland?”
“No.”
Her mother set her mending aside and poured herself a cup of mead. “Let him go, Iseult. It’s been a year. You should forget about Aidan.”
Such a choking rage filled her, she could barely speak. Never would she consider such a thing. “He is my son. My flesh and blood,” Iseult argued. “I cannot forget about him. And Iwillfind out what happened and whether or not he lives.”
Her mother sighed. “You’ll never marry, then. No man of worth would claim the boy, even if you did find him.”
“Caitleen, enough.” Her father sent his wife a dark warning. To Iseult he added, “I know you grieve. And if you want to search again, I’ll take you myself.”
