Erinsong (22 page)

The crinkling lines around
his eyes told her he didn’t
despise her,
even though she despised herself. Now,
would he understand the rest?

“So ye see, then, why I have to go back.”

“Of course,” Jorand said. “You want to see
about the child, make sure it’s well. That makes perfect
sense.”

“No, ‘tis not all. I mean
to take the bairn away with
me when we
leave.”

“Brenna—”

“No, me mind’s made up.”
She tucked her knees
under her chin and
clasped her arms around her legs,
rocking
slightly. “I’ve been vexed for months, nearly
a year now, fretting about this child. God forgive me,
I tried to convince Sinead to end its life, as if
that would take away me sin. And I was relieved at first
not to have the bairn, still hating the man who
gave it
to me sister.” She heaved a sigh.
“But then the dreams
started
coming.”

“Dreams?”

“Aye, in the night, the
child appears out of no
where. Always ‘tis
in some kind of danger and I have
to save
it.” Brenna gnawed her bottom lip. “And in me dreams I usually
can’t. ‘Tis a sign, I believe. The
babe
must be in peril and I must needs see to it.”

“You can’t set much store
in dreams,” he said,
reaching to take the
rabbit from the spit and slice off a
chunk
of meat for each of them. “Dreams are nothing
but fancies.”

“Nothing till they make a
body see things clear.
This child may have
had an ill begetting, but it doesn’t
change the fact that ‘tis me sister’s child. Sinead’s
own flesh. Me own kin.” She waved away his offer
of
food. “How can I not know how it
fares?”

The life of a child, even
one coddled and cared for,
was a dicey
thing. Between famine and plague, acci
dents and interclan warfare, children were the most
vulnerable of beings. To raise a bairn to adulthood was an
accomplishment even if the youngster was
well-cosseted. For a fosterling, a child tossed aside,
Brenna knew the odds of survival were even
slimmer.

“ ‘Tis the burden Sinead
laid upon me. Perhaps ‘tis
me penance for
the sin of rebellion, but I must care for this child.” She swiped
her nose on her sleeve.
“Perhaps ye can’t
see the reason of it, but I’ll not rest till I can take the bairn
back to me father’s keep and
show him his
true heritage.”

Brenna’s lips quivered. Her
marriage was still so
tenuous. True, they
had found delight in each other,
but
she realized she had no right to
ask Jorand to take
on another man’s child.
Even if it meant he cast her
aside after
their handfast time was spent, she intended to keep the
child.

“I will raise this babe,”
she said with force, as if she were trying to convince herself as
well as him. “And I
will love
it.”

“Have you thought about what this means?”

“Whether ye agree to it or not, makes no
difference.” Her voice faltered, but her will was determined.
“The child has a prior claim on me. I must see to it.”

“That’s not what I meant. I was thinking
about the child’s foster parents. Mayhap they care for the child.
What if the babe is happy and safe where it is? Or...”

“Or what?”

“What if the child is dead? Would you really
want to know?” he asked quietly. “Would it not be better for you to
be able to think of it alive?”

“Why would ye say such a thing?”

“The way things are now, you can imagine the
child however you like. Boy or girl, whatever you please. Strong,
healthy, afraid of nothing.” Jorand’s faraway look told Brenna he
might be imagining a child of his own. “You’ve been given a gift,
princess. In your mind and heart, you can hold a perfect child for
your sister.”

“But what I imagine may not be true.”

“Does it matter? When I first came to you,
not being able to remember worried me day and night. Now, I’ve
decided if my memory never comes back, perhaps it is for the
best.”

She stared at him incredulously.

“What if there are things in my past I don’t
want to know?” His brows nearly met over his straight nose. “What
if I were a different sort of man altogether before I washed up on
your beach?”

Brenna laid a hand on his
arm. “We are what we are. I think ye have always been the same,
Jorand. Ye are a fine, fine man. And I’ll have words with any who
says different. If ye have things in your past ye’d
be less than proud of, it only means ye are a
true son
of Adam, neither more nor
less.”

He cast a lopsided smile at
her, beaming under her
backhanded praise.
“If you want this child, I’ll see that you have it, even if I have
to snatch it for you from its crib.”

“That’s exactly what Mother
used to tell us girls the Northmen would do to us if we
misbehaved.” She suppressed a giggle. “Who’d have thought
I’d
have need of
Finn-Gall
cradle robber meself?”
Then
she sobered. “But I’m hoping it won’t
come to that. I’ve brought the silver that was me dowry and stand
prepared to compensate whoever is fostering the
babe. The real trick will be making Father Ambrose
tell us where to find the child.”

“I think you can safely
leave that to me,” he said,
the set of his
jaw leaving no doubt he’d enjoy forcing
the information from the abbot. He caught up her hand and
dropped a kiss into her palm. “Haven’t
you
learned you can trust me yet, Brenna?”

She felt herself falling
headlong into the blue
depths of his eyes.
Aye, here was an ocean she could launch herself upon and fear no
hurt. Brenna pressed
a palm to each of his
cheeks and poured herself into a
kiss.

The rabbit was cold and greasy by the time
they got around to eating it. Neither of them much cared.

***

Brenna wasn’t sure what actually woke her.
One moment, she was curled up beside her husband and the next she
was lying, body tense, ears pricked, straining to catch the sound
again.

The moon had risen, cold
and full, every blade of
grass doubled by
its own sharp shadow. Their fire had sunk to dully glowing embers.
She raised her
head to listen. There, she
heard it again.

It was a voice, low and full of guttural
grunts and sibilance. She couldn’t make out the words. The sound
faded in and out as if it were sometimes amplified by water,
sometimes buffered by the thick woods.

She eased herself away from
Jorand without waking him and glided in silence to the river’s
edge. The
voices were louder now and she
realized why she
couldn’t understand the
words. The men were speak
ing a foreign
tongue.

Norse.

A
rough laugh broke the quiet of the night,
unnatu
rally loud on the water. It wasn’t
a pleasant sound. It was the sound of one who rejoices in another’s
suffering.

Brenna’s soul froze. She knew that laugh.

A longship drifted into
view around a bend in the river and standing in the prow, behind
the serpent head, was the man whose face had haunted her
nightmares. The silvery light made it impossible for
her to see the dull russet of his hair and beard,
but his
coarse features and unmistakable
laugh were burned
on her mind. She’d
watched him violate her sister not just once, but over and over
again in a thousand evil dreams. She’d know him
anywhere.

Suddenly Brenna felt the
weight of a hand on her
shoulder. She
sucked breath in over her teeth, ready to scream, when a palm
clamped over her mouth.

“Be easy, girl,” Jorand
whispered in her ear. “Keep
still.”

Brenna watched, motionless,
as the raiding party
glided by them, too
caught up in their own conversations to notice the glint of two
pairs of eyes tracking
their movements
from shore. The Northmen started a grunting chant and she
recognized with a start it was the same song Jorand had sung in
snatches when he first came to her.

As the dragonship
disappeared around a turn in
the waterway,
the aftershakes of terror hit her. Jorand
folded her into his arms to still her shuddering.

“Hush now.” He murmured
endearments into her
hair, trying to
soothe her. “They’re gone.”

“I know, but—”

“I won’t let any hurt come to you,
Brenna.”

She stopped shivering and
clasped him tightly. Fi
nally, she felt
him pull away.

“Wait here,” Jorand said. “I’ll be back.

“Where are ye going?”

“After them.” He turned and headed toward the
hidden coracle. “Those men are familiar to me. I mean to get some
answers. I’m not sure how, but I know their leader.”

“So do I.”

He spun on his heel then.
Slowly, u
nderstanding dawned on his
face.

“He’s the one.” She wrapped
her arms around her
self and rocked in
hopeless misery. She felt her muscles
constrict as she struggled to maintain control.

Brenna saw a cold shadow
pass over Jorand’s fea
tures as his mouth
settled into a grim line.

“I will kill him for you,”
Jorand promised with cold fury. He turned and continued toward
their small boat. He had hidden the craft beneath brush and broken
boughs in case they encountered un
wanted
traffic. Now he tossed the concealment aside
and untied the prow from the gnarled oak.

“No, don’t go.” Brenna threw her arms around
his waist and buried her face in the middle of his back. “There are
too many of them.”

“Woman, let me be,” he
growled, twisting out of
her grasp. Then
he softened his tone. “Wait here. I’ll
try
to be back before dawn.”

He put a shoulder to the coracle and began
shoving it back into the river Shannon.

Panic cast its tentacles
over Brenna. She’d thought
never to be
free from the terror and guilt of her sister’s violation, but her
wounded soul was beginning
to heal.
Already, Jorand’s tenderness wiped away all but the deepest scars
on her heart. If he got himself killed, she knew she’d never
recover. She had to
stop him.

One of the bits of brush Jorand had used to
hide the ship was a stout limb as big around as her arm. She picked
it up and, in a flash of inspiration, realized it would make an
admirable club.

She took aim at his head
and swung with all her
might. The branch
connected with his temple with a
sickening
thud.

He never saw the blow coming.

“I’ll not be losing ye to
the likes of them,” Brenna said as
her
husband collapsed in an unconscious heap.

Light mist dripped from the
edges of the lean-to. Brenna dipped a cloth into the leather bucket
and
held it to the egg-sized knot swelling
Jorand’s brow. His eyes were still half-closed. He hadn’t stirred
be
yond a groan or two when she dragged
his body up
from the riverbank toward
their little camp.

Halfway back to the
smoldering fire, she’d remembered the boat. She left him splayed
on the long grass
while she splashed into
the Shannon after the coracle. She managed to snag the tow rope
before the
small craft drifted out of her
reach. Now it was bob
bing in the river at
the end of its tether, but at least it
was
securely lashed to the oak again.

When she got him settled
back at their camp, Jorand’s hands were cold and his lips an
unhealthy
shade of blue. In an effort to
warm him, Brenna re
built their fire. She
watched the steady rise and fall of
his
chest as the night wore on, trying to tell herself that was a good
sign.

A lark trilled in a nearby tree and was
promptly joined by his neighbors in a chorus of rejoicing over
surviving the terrors of another night. Overhead, streaks of pearly
gray slashed the darkness. Dawn was fast approaching.

Maybe daylight would open Jorand’s eyes. She
hoped so. How could he have thought of leaving her in the wilds to
chase down that pack of rabid dogs?

“Men,” she muttered under her breath.

Why did he have to race off to avenge Sinead
now when the deed couldn’t be undone? What good would it do? His
getting killed wouldn’t bring back her sister, wouldn’t erase her
guilt. She tried to feel upset with him, but couldn’t.

Instead, she flagellated herself. How could
she have struck him in the exact spot of his previous hurt? Perhaps
she’d done him a serious injury. What if he lost his memory again?
What if he forgot her? In her panic, she hadn’t taken the time to
consider the consequences.