Éire’s Captive Moon (9 page)

Thorvald was standing guard over her, scowling at everyone with his sky-blue eyes and a frown as sour as bad ale. He had survived the attack and had taken charge of the captives, including Charis, the “moonbeam healer”.

Agnarr glanced around. “Is everything secure now?”

“Well, I’d know, Agnarr, if I got the chance to look.” Thorvald’s shoulders were tense, as was the grip he had on his axe. He tilted his head. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Get Kingson from where Erik left him.” Erik. Where was he?

As Thorvald stomped off to retrieve the captive, Agnarr knelt next to the healer, who was every bit as pale as—what was his name?—Colum said. She did indeed have that quality of the moon on a misty night. Her hair had been braided, but wisps had escaped and were now plastered in curling tendrils against her forehead. Her face had a tattoo, a picture of a bird, half covered by ashes and other smudging. Her long, pale throat led to the untied neckline of her gown—a simple one, of unbleached fabric. A bloody handprint on her left breast angered the
Ostman
, however. Who had dared?

He shook his head as he continued his survey. She wore an apron, the pockets still bulging. Curious, he prowled through them, pulling out small pouches, cloth-wrapped bundles, and pungent-smelling mixtures. These reassured him that she was, indeed, the healer he had sought.

A witch? Not such a one as he had in Balestrand.

She was . . . different, though. He would need to treat her well.

The thought reminded him of the incredible pain he had been ignoring from his own wound. How had he been sliced? His helmet had never failed him. Until it had been shot from his head this day. Who had accomplished that feat?

“Agnarr!”

Rising to his feet, he found another of his surviving warriors. He grimaced; Tuirgeis would be displeased at the numbers lost in the raid. Fortunately, he had acquired many slaves—fifteen, not including the
kvinn medisin
—and his men were even now combing the houses in search of any small treasure they could find.

“Agnarr!”

The urgency in the voice compelled him to hurry to where Sigurd beckoned. “What?”

“It’s Erik, Agnarr. He’s been wounded.”

A surprising pain ripped through Agnarr at the words. The two of them picked their way carefully to the outer edge of the fallen near the broken wooden gate. The smoke from the extinguished fires choked him as he drew nearer, making him cough. Spilled blood, emptied bodies, and the overhead cries of carrion birds worked through to Agnarr’s awareness as he neared the youngest member of his party.

“Erik,” he called, feigning heartiness and making himself smile slightly. “You made it!” The smile shot fresh pain through his head, but Agnarr pushed it down inside himself. His men came first.

Erik’s freckled face was drawn and pale. “Didn’t . . . get to fight, Agnarr.”

The weak, thin words were almost the only evidence of Erik’s wound. The spear shaft, broken and jagged through his groin, was the other. Agnarr didn’t dare yank it out; the wound would be redoubled in severity, he knew. Best thing to do would be to leave it until he could be seen to by a proper healer.

“Wake her up!” he shouted, bounding to his feet. “She can prove her worth to me now!”

Confusion was evident on the healer’s face when she was brought to him. Confusion and—after a moment spent acquainting herself with her situation—profound sorrow. Agnarr had seen both before and he ignored them as he ignored the intense pain on his own face.

“My warrior. You must heal him.”

Her eyebrows slanted, her lips thinned to a white line. Defiance vibrated up and down her body.

He pointed to Erik, lying on the ground in agony. “Him! He needs your skills!”

She looked away from him, crossing her arms under her breasts. He grabbed her roughly and spun her to walk beside him, pushing her down next to Erik. She would learn obedience as his slave. She
would
.

“He needs you!” he insisted once again.

Someone cleared a throat just behind him and Agnarr felt a growl low in his throat as he turned to see who it was.

“You asked to see Kingson, Agnarr,” Thorvald reminded him, indicating the wrist-bound slave with his hand. “Here he is.”

Agnarr shook his shoulders and rose to his feet. “Thank you, Thorvald. Now, see to any treasure and make sure the slaves are secure. We need to torch the buildings. Ask the captives about children.” It had been itching on the edges of his mind; there had been no children in this village. They had to be somewhere.

“I will.”

To the translator, Agnarr said, “Translate my words. The woman is to help Erik here. He is wounded.”

Kingson frowned at him, but Agnarr sensed the man was more confused than anything, and he almost laughed at himself. The captive did not speak Norse! The
Ostman
chided himself.

Then he grew serious. Both these captives would have to learn Norse. That was all there was to it.

So with exaggerated motions, enunciating each word clearly, Agnarr began, speaking to Kingson first since Charis was an unknown to him.

“Erik,” he said, pointing to the young warrior, “is hurt, see? Wounded.”

Kingson nodded. “Wounded, yes,” he repeated in Agnarr’s native tongue.

The
Ostman
nodded his approval then he pointed at the healer. “Tell her to help Erik.” He made motions to go with the words and Kingson seemed to understand, if only in a vague, infantile way.

In the strange, melodic words of the people here, Kingson spoke to Charis, gesturing to Erik and pointing at her pockets, which obviously contained her medicines.

Agnarr expected instant compliance.

“He wants me to do
what
?”

Cowan shrugged a little and glanced away from the healer’s grief-ravaged face. Was this the
witch
Bran had spoken of? Her? Cowan didn’t—couldn’t—believe her to be a witch. Still, the leader of the Northmen was all but glaring at him in expectation. Cowan acquiesced to the adamant flare in Agnarr’s blue eyes.

“He said, as near as I can tell, to heal the lad there.”

The healer gasped, her eyes darkening. “But—but he invaded my home! And this one here killed—” she continued, gulping and pressing one blood-streaked hand to her breast, “—killed my husbands! I refuse to help him!”

Cowan could see her anguish as easily as the tears which spilled down her pale cheeks. “I don’t think you have a choice,” he informed her, hardening his heart to the despair that flashed from her face. He indicated the ropes, which still encircled his wrists. “We’ve been taken captive, Healer,” he clarified. “We’re bound to service.”

“I’m a free woman!”

Agnarr gestured abruptly, whatever he had for patience gone.

Cowan tried one more time. “Healer. I am Cowan, son of King Branieucc of Fiatach, a day’s walk westward from here.” The healer met his eyes, but only in the most passive way. He pressed on, not wanting to fail, because he needed to earn the trust of this battle leader if he were to escape. “Please. It could go ill with us all if you do not help.”

His pleading went for nothing, but Agnarr had decided to use his own methods.

With a speed that Cowan remembered from the brief battle at the monastery, the Northman grabbed the healer by her upper arm, his hand huge and tanned against her pale skin.

“No!” Charis heard herself screaming as her husbands’ murderer all but lifted her off the ground again. Oh, she had thoroughly understood what the red-bearded prince had told her; this Northman wanted her to heal one of her enemies! “No! I won’t!”

Her captor ground out something in his harsh language and practically threw her on top of the young man with the spear in his groin. One angry hand indicated the broken weapon and he made some sort of grunt that sounded like a question.

She refused to acknowledge his words, but the young Northman moaned, and his eyes fluttered open. A bright path of sunlight pierced the clouds, illuminating the pain-etched, beardless face.

She could not refuse the plea in those eyes. Eyes not so very different from those of the young men she had known all her twenty-one summers. In spite of the screaming, clawing, wrenching grief inside her chest, Charis had to help. Devin and Devlin would understand. Surely they would. She composed herself, though guilt for their deaths threatened to drown her.

“I need my things,” she said. “Medicines and stitchery. And I need cloth for bandaging.” While she spoke, she was ripping the cloth of the man’s trousers; a strange garment, since her men wore leggings.

Her men. More tears burned her eyes as she probed the wound, so she stopped for a moment to clear her vision.
My men.

Revenge burned inside her and for a moment—just a moment—she considered killing the patient before her and then using the same spear in the young man to pierce her captor.

But no, her men would expect more from her. Charis remembered that, sealed it in clay, and put it deep in her heart. Later. Revenge would come, she promised herself. Later.

“My things!” she called loudly, finally turning to Cowan. Impatience held nausea at bay. “I need them! If I can’t go to my home, the—the Northman can bid farewell to his man.” The prince nodded, and turned to the Northman. He didn’t speak their captor’s language, but he did manage to make himself understood, Charis observed.
Good for him. I will never learn that tongue. Never!

Four thick-muscled men surrounded her and one pulled her to her feet once more. Charis steadied her guts and clenched her fists for the walk to her home. It was harder than almost anything she could remember doing.

Moans of the wounded as they died. The grunts and cries of rape. Smoke burned her eyes, smoke from burning mounds of hay and thatched roofs. Blood smeared on faces, arms, bodies, and the discarded garments of the dead and dying.
The smells!
Stirred earth, spilled innards, and the sharp scent of terror swirled like invisible smoke around her. But Charis tried to bury that. Her home was in front of her and she resolved she was not going to cry again in front of the invaders. Maybe, if she did as they asked, they would let her stay and help—

Help the children. I hope they’re staying hidden! Stay!
She tried to push the words in their direction, hoping beyond reason they would know what to do. She kept her gaze from the distant little fire of the old blacksmith’s hut.
Stay hidden!

“Charis! Healer, help!”

Muscled arms prevented her from leaving the Northmen and she seethed, hatred for them roiling inside her like old, stewed tea heated anew. Bitter. Strong. She swallowed it down. She had to.

Her home was before her. Sweet, precious memories seemed to flow from the broken door to greet her, taunting her with the love of two men who would never hold her again. Never tease her, pretend to fight over her, or try to coax her from her herbs in the summertime. Never again.

The pain was overwhelming. Swooning, Charis made a concentrated effort and remained upright, blinking back tears. Into her home she went, followed by the four invaders.

“What happened in here?” Charis bit out, her jaws clenched against the choking sorrow.

No response beyond being shoved roughly toward the scattered hearth. She wanted to spit.

All about her, the tables were overturned, small boxes and packs dumped clumsily on the floor. Her dishes had been broken, for they’d been of clay and wood and had no value to the despoilers of her
rath
and home. But there on the shelf, her medicines had been left alone.

She didn’t wonder why, but thought it might have something to do with the linked iron circles her husbands had had made for her, years past. As a wedding gift. She had brought the home to their marriage, so they had made things for the home they would have together, to demonstrate their fidelity. It was the way of the marriage of the first degree, between equals of status or wealth. The most honorable, in her opinion.

She had planned on handing down the circles to her children, but her womb had never quickened.

The children!
For the space of a heartbeat, her fingers stilled as they ordered her herbs and surgery elements. Needle. Thread for the wound. Mandragora. Chamomile for once she’d stitched him up. Yarrow—leaves picked fresh yesterday—to fight swelling and fever.
The children!
She had to protect them. She had brought about Devin’s death by her intemperate behavior; she could not allow that again.
Don’t look in their direction!
she warned herself as she blankly tucked her medicines into a satchel.
Keep their attention on you, not the children. They have to be safe!