Erinsong Page 3

  Brenna padded to the shuttered window and pushed it open to let in the dawn. The cock cried in the barnyard below. The guineas would need tending, and soon.

  And so would the Northman.

  Whatever had possessed Da?

  Last evening when the rescue party arrived back at the keep, her father had trussed up the stranger in the round room occupying the main floor of the tower while the king and his war party feasted. Brenna felt a flutter of pity for the Northman when the conversation turned to inventive ways of killing him if the ale turned out to be bad.

  “Drown the blackguard in a bog,” Connor said, pounding his wooden drinking bowl on the table.

  “A nice slow garroting would be none too good for an Ostman demon, I’m thinking,” Aidan said, a hard glint in his eyes. Worship of the old gods had mostly faded with the coming of St. Patrick and his Christ, but strangling a sacrificial victim was still deeply ingrained in some of Erin’s sons.

  Then the suggestions turned truly grim, each man trying to outdo the other in gore, clearly hoping to terrify the Northman.

  But the stranger threw back his golden head and laughed.

  He was addle-brained for sure, Brenna decided.

  “If worse comes to worst, perhaps you’ll fetch your bows and use me for target practice,” the Northman said calmly. “If you’ve no better ideas for killing me than those, it’s clear your wits are in need of sharpening. No doubt your aim could use it as well.”

  Silence blanketed the hall for the space of several heartbeats. Then Brian Ui Niall slammed his rough hand on the table and started to chuckle. Soon the rest of the warriors joined in and Brenna recognized the gleam of grudging respect on several hardened faces.

  When her father pried the bung out of the ale cask with his long hunting knife, Brenna surprised herself by hoping the ale was good.

  To a man, they all leaned forward as the king sampled the first horn.

  Brian drank deeply, ran his tongue over his lips and made his pronouncement. “Nectar.”

  Relief flooded warmly to Brenna’s toes.

  At least, she’d felt relieved at first. After her father decided she’d have the responsibility of seeing the Northman put to useful occupation, she began to wish the cask had been full of seawater. It was one thing not to want him dead. Being in charge of the Northman, forced to bear him company, was another thing altogether.

  Brenna pulled the shutters closed again, leaving enough of a crack to let in the soft morning light. She shrugged her brown linen tunic over her head, then pulled on woolen socks, winding strips of cloth around her calves to keep them up. Lastly, she put on the old shoes she reserved for the barnyard.

  Brenna slid out of the small cell she and Moira shared and climbed down successive ladders to the lowest level of the keep. The stone tower had been designed with a siege in mind, each of the successive floors accessible only by a single ladder that could be pulled up by defenders if necessary. Down in the main hall, a few of her father’s warriors had been too far gone in their cups to make it home last night. She was careful not to wake them.

  Padraigh was sprawled before the smoldering ash of the peat fire. Aidan and the largest of the wolfhounds were curled up like two spoons. Brenna stepped over the snoring figure of Connor McNaught on her way to the door. She wondered briefly who was minding his motherless bairns while he drank himself to oblivion in her father’s hall.

  “Men,” she muttered with a curl of her lip. Brenna knotted a brat around her shoulders, letting the short cape drape over her frame, before she slipped out to face the Northman.

  He’d given his word that he wouldn’t run off, and Brian Ui Niall was willing to take it. In truth, there was nowhere for him to run. A Northman alone would be easy pickings for any hunting party in the wilds. Her father could set his great hounds after the stranger and they’d have him in no time. Since the man didn’t even know who he was, he wasn’t likely to know where his countrymen were and couldn’t count on them for aid.

  Last month, the traveling peddler had told Brenna a horde of the Norse heathens had set up an overwinter camp far to the south near the mouth of the river Liffey. The new settlement lasted through the damp Irish winter on the leeward side of Erin, and the heavenly green spring bid the intruders stay. The Northmen were probably still there, but her Northman would have no chance of finding them, on his own and afoot.

  Brenna scattered grain for the hens scuttling around her hem. Then she lifted the latch on the cattle byre, where the Northman had been given leave to sleep. He was nowhere to be seen.

  “Devil take the man! It’s daft we are to be trusting the likes of him.”

  “The likes of whom?”

  Brenna nearly jumped out of her skin. Moira had slipped out of the keep behind her.

  “Don’t be sneaking up on me like that,” Brenna said, rubbing her forearms. “Ye’ve given me gooseflesh.”

  Moira peered around her sister into the byre. “Where’s your Northman?”

  “How would I be knowing that? I’m not God Almighty, am I?” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended. Her stomach balled into a firm knot. Instead of feeling glad to be rid of him, she was upset the Northman was missing, and that made her feel even worse.

  “Brennie, there’s no cause for blasphemy,” Moira said, lifting her chin. “Wonder where he’s gone off to.”

  “Ah, so ye’ve taken to him already, have ye?”

  “ ‘Tis no sin to use the eyes God gave me, is it? He’s a handsome lad indeed.” Moira sighed, then nudged Brenna with her elbow. “And here ye had me thinkin’ ye’ve no time for noticing a fine man’s face.”

  “And neither I do. ‘Twas Da who saw fit to make me his keeper, not me. And speaking of fitting ...” Brenna stomped across the barnyard to see if the Northman was in the pigsty where he might as well belong. There was no sign of him. “I should have given him a name when he asked it of me. Beelzebub comes to mind.”

  “ ‘Tis so unfair Da gave him to ye.”

  “He didn’t give him to me. Da only gave me charge of the man.” Brenna didn’t feel the need to add that Brian Ui Niall cautioned her to tell him straightaway if the Northman so much as looked cross-eyed at her. She also suspected the king had set one of the more reliable of his men to keep a surreptitious watch over her dealings with the stranger. Forcing her to spend time with Ostman was just her father’s way of punishing her for interfering when the king had intended to kill the Northman outright on the beach. “May heaven bless him with a good clout to the head.”

  Moira raised a brow. “Da or the Northman?”

  “Both!”

  “I don’t see him anywhere, Brennie.”

  “Nor do I.” Brenna gnawed at the inside of her cheek, wondering if she should rouse her father to look for the Northman. She decided against it. If he gave her father cause, the king might have him killed out of annoyance. “Come then. I planned for him to fetch the water this fine morning, but there’s nothing for it. Ye can help me with it instead.”

  Brenna balanced the stout yoke across her sister’s shoulders and hefted the two buckets herself. They’d have to struggle with the yoke together once the pails were full.

  “Doesn’t this make ye wish ye had a man of your own, Brennie? A married woman has no need to haul her own water.” Moira started across the yard. “Heaven knows it’s past time ye made a match.”

  “And what makes ye think a husband would be any more biddable than the Northman we can’t seem to find? Stop fussing about me making a match. Ye’ll only be wasting your breath and tryin’ me patience.”

  “But what of Connor McNaught? Did ye never think on him?” Moira asked, swinging the yoke wide as she turned to look back at Brenna. “He’s not so hard on the eyes and he’s got that darling farm. And him being a widower and needing a woman to care for his bairns and all. Do ye not think he’d make a fine husband?”

  “No, Moira.” Brenna struggled to keep her voice even. “I’ve no great liking for him.”


  “Ye’ve no liking for any man.”

  “That’s God’s truth,” Brenna muttered as she hefted the buckets and slogged behind Moira. “Nor need for one, either.”

  “But I have.” Moira pulled a mock tragic face. “Sometimes I feel as if I’ll burst out of me own skin for lack of havin’ a fine man to hold me. And ye know Da will not hear of me takin’ a husband till ye are married good and proper.”

  Married good and proper. As if it was possible now.

  Brenna pulled her lips into a hard line, then felt the corners twitch in spite of herself. It was impossible to feel gloomy for long when her sister was around. Moira was like sunshine with feet. Brenna couldn’t help but smile.

  Back when Brenna cared about such things, she sometimes silently bemoaned the fact that Moira had been the only one in the family blessed with fiery good looks. She felt dowdy as a sparrow beside the fine plumage of her younger sister. What lad could be expected to spare Brenna a sideways glance when Moira fluttered into the keep?

  But now Brenna was thankful for her mousy brown hair and general plainness. The last thing she wanted was to catch a man’s eye.

  “I missed ye when ye were gone.” Moira sighed. “The year seemed a lifetime.”

  “Aye, so it did.” Brenna’s voice cracked. Certainly another life.

  “And in some ways, I think ye’ve yet to come back to us, Brennie,” Moira said. “Stormy as a raincloud ye are more than half the time and I haven’t heard ye sing once these long weeks past. I’m glad ye decided not to take the veil. Never did think it suited ye, all that obeying and repenting, and no opportunity to sin at all—”

  “Moira!”

  “I’d be mad in a month.”

  “Ye probably would.” Brenna smiled at the unlikely image of her pretty sister in a plain habit, shut off from her crowd of admirers. No, the Church wouldn’t do for the likes of Moira, but for Brenna, it had seemed the answer. Especially since Sinead was going, too.

  “Now, our Sinead, I’m sure she’s taken to the religious life with all the fervor of an angel,” Moira said. “We always knew she was marked for sainthood.”

  “Aye,” Brenna said softly, her older sister’s mild face flickering in her mind. “She’s an angel, in truth.”

  “Fair Sinead never seemed to know the meaning of sin, but ye! I thought to meself when ye left with her for Clonmacnoise that ye were cut from a different bolt of cloth.” Moira grinned wickedly at her. “I don’t mean it badly, but ye must admit someone who conspired to put slow dye in the soap and turn all the hands in the keep bright yellow is not destined for a life of contemplation.”

  Brenna chuckled at the memory. “It did take a bit for Da to figure that one out. But at least, we could tell who washed and who didn’t!”

  Moira laughed. “No doubt ye’d have bedeviled the abbess with more of the same if ye’d taken the vows.” Her smile faded. “Yet now ye’ve come back, ye’re still betwixt and between. I’ve a feeling ye haven’t quite decided to live amongst us. Whatever happened to ye at Clonmacnoise?”

  Brenna bit her bottom lip. She and Moira had born each other’s secrets since Moira was old enough to put two words together. Yet looking into her sister’s fresh, innocent eyes, Brenna couldn’t bring herself to tell her. Better to let her stay ignorant, even if she pouted. It was bad enough Da knew. She didn’t think she could bear it if Moira looked at her with the same reproach she saw in her father’s eyes.

  “Never ye mind,” Brenna said briskly. “We’ve enough to do this day without stirring up the past.”

  Moira shrugged and chattered happily as they chugged down the path to the stream. She invited Brenna to admire her newly crimsoned nails and wondered aloud if she could talk their father into buying that darling little silver cross the peddler had shown her last month. She wanted to wear it for next St. Brigid’s feast day, she said. Moira fervently hoped the old man who traveled about hawking his wares didn’t sell it before he made his way back to Donegal.

  Brenna loved her sister dearly, but she had learned early on to detach her ears when Moira was on a prattle.

  As they neared the stream, she heard a sound she couldn’t identify. Brenna froze.

  “Hush ye now,” she ordered Moira.

  The sound came from the water, a snarling fierce sound that made her wonder if they’d stumbled onto a wolf pack. She eased the buckets down and stole over to the edge of the embankment to peer at the water below.

  She caught a glimpse of fair hair. The growling noise came from the Northman, and from the regular rhythm of the sound, Brenna could only guess that he was trying to sing. She parted the bracken to sneak a better look.

  He was standing hip-deep in midstream, naked as Adam in all his glory.

  No, Brenna thought as she sucked in her breath. Not Adam. With dawn burnishing his hair gold, this man was surely more like Lucifer the Fallen. An angel of light designed to pull the unwary into outer darkness.

  Water slid from his broad shoulders and down his chest. When he stretched languidly, the muscles in his arms and torso rippled in perfection. In the soft light, the fine hairs on his flat abdomen glistened like the fur on a bee’s belly. He plunged himself under the water and came up shaking his head, like one of the wolfhounds, splattering droplets in every direction. Then he started to wade out of the stream.

  From behind her, Brenna heard Moira’s breath hiss over her teeth.

  “Oh, Brennie, would ye look at his—”

  Brenna wheeled around, dragging her sister away from the ledge.

  “Get ye back to the keep this instant, I tell ye, and guard the innocence of your eyes!” Brenna whispered furiously, giving Moira a fierce shake.

  “And what of your eyes?”

  “Don’t ye be bothering your head about that,” Brenna said crossly. “Mind me now or I’ll tell Da and he’ll lock ye in the keep till ye’re wrinkled as a winter apple and twice as sour.”

  A flicker of concern flitted across Moira’s face. “But is it safe for ye? To be here alone, I mean?”

  “ ‘Twill be fine,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “Get ye gone now and I’ll be along directly.”

  Brenna watched as Moira skittered up the path. Then she edged over to the embankment and leaned against a tree, facing away from the water. She was determined not to look at him again. Once was definitely enough.

  “Northman!” she called out.

  “Is that you, Princess?” He chuckled, a low seductive rumble. “I thought it might be.”

  “What do ye mean by that?” Blood rushed into her cheeks. The infernal man thought she’d been spying on him.

  “Just that you’d be the only one up this early.” His tone was without guile. “It appears I’m going to live long enough to need a name after all. Have you thought of one for me?”

  “Perhaps I’ll pick a name so vile, ye’ll jump back into the sea and swim away.”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  “How about Conway?” The tiniest hint of mischief crept into her voice.

  “And what does Conway mean?”

  “Yellow hound,” Brenna admitted.

  “I’m flattered. Is that the best you can do?”

  “Perhaps ye’d like to be called Doran—”

  “Which no doubt means Norse slug-worm.”

  She stifled a laugh with her hand. “No, Doran is a name that suits ye. It means ‘wandering stranger.’ Ye can’t argue with that.”

  “No, but is it a name you’ll be happy calling me.” More splashing sounds traveled up to her. “When you look at me, what’s the first name that comes to your mind?”

  “I’’m not looking at ye,” she insisted, fighting the urge to do just that.

  His rumbling laugh taunted her. “A name, Princess. That’s all I ask.”

  “Keefe Murphy,” she said quickly, then clamped her lips tight. She hadn’t meant to let the name she’d been thinking of him as slip out.

  “Keefe Murphy.” He tried i
t on for size. “Sounds decent. Why do you think it should be my name for the time being?”

  “Murphy means ‘sea warrior,’ and ye’ve no doubt come from the sea.”

  “And Keefe?”

  Handsome. She couldn’t admit she found him fair to look upon. Her cheeks heated with fresh color. “I cannot say, but it suits ye. Ye must trust me for that.”

  “You’re the only one I can trust right now. Good enough, Brenna. Keefe it is, then,” he said. “The king of Donegal’s hall was filled with drinking heroes last night. I’ll wager some of them are still there, the worse for their heroics. That ale was potent.”

  “And lucky for you ‘twas in a well-made cask.” Brenna made the mistake of turning around to talk to him and caught him tugging up his leggings.

  Well made indeed, she admitted grudgingly. Before she could avert her eyes, he looked up and met her gaze directly. The man’s smile would have melted the Stone of Tara.

  “I’ve already had my bath, Brenna. But I could be coaxed back into the water if you join me.”

  The heat in his blue eyes made them go dark. Brenna’s insides squirmed. It was one thing to admire the fine line of a man’s frame. To see him openly admire her in return set her quaking like a stand of aspen in a gale. But she’d be damned if she’d let him see her fear. Brenna took refuge in rage.

  A low noise of disgust erupted from her lips as she hurled the buckets down at him.

  “Curse ye for a misbegotten son of Satan! The only water I’d join ye in would be bog water, so I could get a closer look while me Da drowns ye! Don’t ye be daring to look at me that way ever, ever again. Fill the buckets and fetch them back to the keep. And be quick about it, or I’ll set the hounds on ye.”

  Brenna hoisted her tunic, baring her legs to the knee, and ran up the path. She swiped angrily at the tear spilling down her cheek.

  So much for her vow that a Northman would never make her cry again.

  Chapter Four

  Keefe crested the rise. He barely noticed the weight of the full buckets dangling from the yoke settled across his shoulders, but the wound in his thigh slowed his pace. His gaze swept over the home of Brian Ui Niall. There was the sagging cattle byre, a chicken coop listing to the south, and a half dozen circular thatch-roofed huts clustered around the stone tower of the keep.