Surrender to an Irish Warrior. Michelle Willingham

crouched low in the tall grasses, watching the silhouettes of two horsemen. It had taken him nearly an hour to reach the fortress, due to the hilly terrain, and the afternoon sun had already begun to drift downwards.

      The invaders wore the clothing of the Lochlannach, Viking raiders by the look of it. Their long cloaks were fastened with large bronze brooches, and although the taller man wore no armour, Trahern sensed he would make a formidable opponent. His companion was shorter, with darker blond hair. Trahern grasped the hilt of his sword, while he pondered whether or not he could defeat them alone. It would be dangerous.

      One of the huts was still burning, the thatch bright orange with flames. Smoke rose high into the air, the acrid scent smothering the cashel.

      Trahern watched the two men as they patrolled the remaining huts, inspecting the contents. Not a single other person did he see. Any Ó Reilly survivors had abandoned the cashel.

      Trahern kept one hand on his sword hilt when the men rode closer. Their faces showed displeasure, and he overheard them arguing in the Norse tongue.

      They weren’t here to attack, it was clear, nor to steal the tribe’s valuables or supplies. Instead, the men’s expressions were grim, as though dissatisfied by what they saw.

      Trahern moved in closer, keeping his body pressed to the ground. Dry grass tickled his face, the cold earth damp with frost. When he reached the outer palisade wall, he crept nearer to a burned section to get a better look.

      One of the riders was on a familiar mount. It was Barra, the destrier that he’d paid a damned fortune for. The black horse was nervous from the smoke, prancing his feet. If the Lochlannach thief didn’t control Barra, he’d find himself on his backside.

      Though Trahern wanted to attack the two men and regain his horse, logic forced him to hold back. He needed answers, and these men would lead him to them.

      Within a few more minutes, the Vikings left the settlement and rode west. Trahern was torn between following them or entering the cashel to search for Jilleen Ó Reilly. Though he believed they’d taken her, he couldn’t be certain.

      He cast a backward glance at the men before racing inside the cashel. Heavy smoke choked the air in his lungs, and heat blazed from the burning hut. He had only a few moments to spare before he had to follow the men.

      Fate blessed him, for near the outer gate lay one of the shoes he’d given to Jilleen. Whether the girl had dropped it on purpose or whether she’d lost it didn’t matter. It confirmed that she was here. And he knew who’d taken her.

      His fist curled around his sword hilt. The Lochlannach would answer for this.

      Trahern picked up the shoe and ran back to the trail, running behind the men. He found a second shoe only a mile further, on the same path travelled by the riders.

      When he reached the top of the next hill, he dropped low to study the men. They were travelling towards the Viking settlement along the coast. He’d seen it before, but knew he couldn’t make it there by nightfall, not without a horse.

      He cursed, for he had no alternative except to turn back. He needed to borrow a mount from the monks.

      Frustration shredded his patience, and he began the walk back to the abbey. Donning his own shoes once more, he imagined exactly how he would break through the Viking forces.

      The abbot granted Morren the hospitality of St Michael’s, and an older monk, Brother Chrysoganus, led her to the guest house adjoining the monastery. He offered her a kindly smile and began filling a basin with water. When Morren realised he meant to bathe her feet as a gesture of welcome, she interrupted.

      ‘Forgive me, Brother Chrysoganus, but I would prefer to wash my own feet.’ She couldn’t bear the idea of anyone touching her just now, even if it was a tradition.

      The older man appeared surprised by her declaration, but he deferred. ‘If that is your wish.’ Offering her the basin, he added, ‘I must join the others for none. If you have need of anything afterwards, you’ve only to ask.’

      Morren nodded, unwrapping the leather shoes Trahern had made for her. She rested her bare feet in the warm water.

      ‘Thank you, Brother.’ After he’d gone, she bathed her feet and let them sit in the warm water for a few minutes.

      The bells sounded for none, and she heard the monks’ voices rising and falling in plain chant. The simple tones were soothing, but when her hands moved over her skin, she started to tremble.

      Dark memories pulled her down, the men’s faces taunting her. Morren tried to block it out, but the nightmare of the attack returned. She lowered her head, nausea forming in her stomach. God help her, she couldn’t bear this. Her hands moved to her empty stomach, and the coldness seemed to envelop her, drowning her.

      Don’t think of it, she warned herself. Forget.

      Closing her eyes, she removed her feet from the basin and sank to her knees. The haunting voices of the monks echoed within the stone chapel, their prayers rising into the air. The coldness swallowed her up, taking her back into the numbness that she needed to survive. There had been no one to save her, no mercy. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve such a fate.

      Worse, there had come a time when she’d stopped fighting. She’d lain there, staring at the dark sky, waiting for it to be over. Shame swelled up inside her, for she should have struggled. Used her fists, her teeth—anything.

      Instead, she’d prayed to die.

      Her gaze fell upon the crude shoes lying beside the basin. Trahern had fashioned them for her, not wanting her to suffer from the cold. A hard lump formed in her throat at his kind gesture.

      She suspected he wasn’t coming back. Though he’d sworn he’d return at sunset, she wasn’t certain he would keep his word. Her hands clenched together, and Morren forced herself to rise. Leaving the guest chamber behind, she stumbled to the one place that would offer sanctuary to her troubled thoughts: the garden.

      Inside the monks’ small courtyard there were neatly tended plots that had not a single weed. A few heads of cabbage were left behind, along with herbs. In the corner, tucked away behind one of the apple trees, she saw an abandoned garden.

      It was covered in dead weeds, left alone to grow over. Perhaps the monks no longer had a need for it, but she longed for something useful to do.

      Over the next few hours, Morren busied herself clearing out the waste, working the good nutrients back into the barren soil. Perhaps, in the spring, they might find a purpose for the bed. The soil needed to rest through the winter, but in spring it would yield a good harvest if someone tended to it.

      The distraction did nothing to cease her worry for Trahern. Likely another attack was happening at the cashel right now. He was alone, and though his strength was undeniable, if the Lochlannach found him they would kill him.

      The thought made her nerves constrict tighter, and Morren voiced a silent prayer for his welfare. Though Trahern was hardly more than a stranger to her, he’d saved her life. If he hadn’t been there to tend her, she’d have bled to death.

      She only wished he hadn’t sent her sister for help. Jilleen was her only family, her only companionship. Without her, Morren had no one.

      She ripped out the weeds from the roots, as though she could tear out her own frustrations and fears. She longed to return to the cashel, to see for herself the extent of the damage, but her body couldn’t endure it. Even now, she fought the dizziness that threatened her vision with bright spots.

      She didn’t know how many hours had passed, but in time Brother Chrysoganus brought her a simple repast of bread and cheese. ‘I thought you might like something to eat.’

      ‘Thank you, Brother.’ She wiped her hands on her skirts, realising she was hungrier than she’d thought. ‘I hope you don’t mind I spent my time working.’