The Warrior's Touch (6 page)

‘Graeme Ó Duinne, have you lost your wits? Why on earth would you trouble our daughter with nonsense about wedding again?’

Graeme chuckled, sitting back with satisfaction. ‘She’s been alone for too long. I am just giving her the push she needs.’

His wife glared at him. Graeme enjoyed seeing her ire. Never was Póla so alluring as when she grew angry. Like a
bean-sidhe
, Póla advanced upon him, her grey eyes thunderous. ‘And what were you thinking, leaving an innocent girl alone with a man such as Connor?’

‘Our Aileen has borne a child, Póla. She’s a widow, free to do as she pleases. There is no shame in her being alone with Connor.’

‘What will everyone think of her?’

‘Likely the same as I do. It is about time someone matched the two of them up. It may as well be meself. I intend to see them wed before the winter.’

‘She’s lost her husband,’ Póla argued. ‘It is too soon.’

‘And what better man to comfort her? Our Aileen has held feelings for Connor for many years.’

He gathered Póla into his arms. ‘Do you not think she deserves happiness?’

‘I think you are an interfering old man who should keep himself out of Aileen’s life.’

He tilted her chin to look at him. ‘I’ve a secret, carried over this past moon that I would share with you. Can I trust you with it?’

Her face softened. ‘Of course.’

‘Eachan did not father Aileen’s daughter. Rhiannon belongs to Connor.’

Póla’s face whitened. ‘I don’t understand. She—they never—’

‘I’ve a story to tell you,
a stór
.’ He took her in his arms, kissing her cheek. ‘And when I’ve finished, you’ll understand what Eachan made me promise. He asked me to bring them together, for he loved Aileen so. He wanted to gift her with the man she truly wanted.’ Póla’s eyes grew misty, and he knew he had touched her heart.

‘Fate has brought them together, and this is how I shall keep the vow I made to Eachan.’

‘Our daughter is stubborn,’ Póla replied, her gaze focusing in the distance. ‘She may ask Connor to leave.’

‘Then we will find a way to keep them together.’ And Graeme Ó Duinne sealed the promise with a kiss.

‘Y
ou are Connor MacEgan,’ a young boy said, and beckoned for Connor to come closer. The child sat outside one of the cottages, picking weeds from a small garden.

With cinnamon hair and deep green eyes, a ready smile creased the boy’s face. His young arms had a light tan from the sunlight and strong muscles that had seen a great deal of use. From the waist up, he was no different from any other boy. But his right leg was gone, leaving only a stump above his knee.

‘What is your name?’ Connor asked, keeping his gaze away from the boy’s missing leg.

‘My name is Whelon Ó Duinne. And you are one of the great warriors.’ The child’s face lit up with eagerness.

Connor held up his bandaged hands, feeling uneasy beneath Whelon’s excitement. ‘I was once.’

‘Can you train me?’

Connor avoided the answer he did not wish to give. ‘Why do you want to be a soldier?’

‘To fight the Norman enemy, of course.’

‘Not every Norman is an enemy,’ Connor said, thinking of his brothers’ wives, Genevieve and Isabel. ‘Many are men and women like us.’

‘Then I would only fight the wicked men.’ The boy flexed his muscles, and Connor hid a smile.

‘There will be time enough for that later,’ he said, evading the issue.

Whelon’s face strained, and he shook his head. ‘I must begin now. It takes me longer than the other boys to learn a skill. If I am to be a warrior, I have no choice.’

The intensity of the boy’s vow made it clear that Whelon would not be dissuaded.

‘You did not answer my question,’ Whelon remarked. ‘Will you train me?’

‘That is the task of your
aite
,’ Connor answered.

‘My foster-father does not believe I will ever fight.’ Whelon’s face darkened. ‘He believes that without my leg, I can do nothing.’ Small hands tightened into fists. ‘I shall prove him wrong. Aileen has said so.’

Connor cleared his throat, disliking the direction of the boy’s thoughts. Without a limb, a man was useless on the battlefield. No one would rely upon him. If he had no men at his side, no one to help defend him, he might as well bare his chest before the enemy’s blade.

‘Were I you, I would choose another path.’ Though he tried to keep kindness in his voice, Connor saw the hurt upon the child’s face. He turned away, walking toward the meadow.

Why had Aileen given the child false hopes? She knew nothing of fighting, nor the ways of a soldier. A warrior had to remain dispassionate when he sank his blade into a man’s heart. A single misstep, a fraction of hesitation, brought death. Connor knew, for he had felt the razor’s edge of a sword cutting into his own skin. The scars remained. And if this young lad tried to become a soldier, he would die.

Connor passed through the open meadow, moving toward the forest. Whelon’s request reminded him that he had allowed his body to grow soft in the weeks he’d spent with Aileen.

The need to train, to stretch his limbs and regain his strength, burgeoned within him. He started to run, his weakened legs flexing with the effort. There were ways he could maintain his physical abilities, even before he could hold a sword. He increased the pace, running toward the secluded forest grove.

Deep in the shadowed trees, he found an area where the trees did not grow close together. He took a moment to calm his breathing, then he extended his arm as though he held a sword. Across the ground he moved, visualising the slashes in his mind, lunging with an imaginary weapon he could not grasp. Over and over he went through the familiar motions, until his body reacted through instinct and his mind drifted.

Sweat dripped from his brow, his legs burning as he feinted right, then left. He could not let the injury defeat him. If it meant compensating with his legs, so be it. In time, he would use the sword Trahern had loaned him.

Thoughts of Whelon invaded his concentration. The child had his own form of compensation for his leg. Whelon’s sculpted arms revealed a great deal of strength, far beyond that of an ordinary lad. Could he not learn to fight? His memory shifted to warriors he’d known, men who had lost limbs and returned to battle.

But then, these were seasoned men, accustomed to pain and loss. They knew the risks and could adapt. Whelon was only a child. He could not train in the same manner as one who had known fighting all his life.

Even as Connor’s feet moved with the swiftness of experience, the aching of unused muscles crept forth. At long last, he sank to the ground to rest, his lungs constricted.

Connor stared at the bandaged splints. They hid his injuries, and though at times the skin itched, he rarely felt the aching pain any more. Although Aileen had promised to remove the bandages soon, the urge overcame him to see how his hands had healed.

Using his teeth to free the bandages, he unwound them until the splints fell to the ground. Though his skin was a pale grey colour, the texture did not bother him as much as the gnarled bones. His fingers had not grown straight, the right hand resembling an animal claw more than a human limb.

He could not bend his wrist, nor move his fingers more than a hair’s breadth.

Despair warred with his anger. He had held on to this hope, that somehow Aileen held the skill to heal him. Now, he doubted such was possible. She had saved his life. But for what?

He should have ignored his hatred and gone to see the Ó Banníon healer. He should have put away his pride. Instead, he’d trusted Aileen.

He could not help but cast a small portion of responsibility upon her. If the elderly healer Kyna had lived, could she not have spared his hands? Aileen had not the experience of time.

As the sun dusted the edge of the tree branches with light, the morning waxing into afternoon, he feared his future as a soldier had ended. The grief of loss festered inside his mind, for he could not see how he would ever grip a sword, much less fight against an enemy. Logic and willpower raged against one another. If these hands belonged to another man, as a commander he would not allow the soldier to fight.

The thought of never lifting a sword again meant giving up his dreams. How could he lead a tribe when he lacked the strength to do so? A hollow feeling thrust itself into his mind, anger infusing him.

He could not give up yet. He’d rather die than surrender. No matter the cost, he swore he would regain his former strength. Even if it brought his death.

The welcoming aroma of lavender and rosemary filled the interior of Aileen’s hut. She recalled the nights when Eachan would sit with her, sipping a warm drink. Of course, he preferred a strong dash of poteen mixed with it. Sometimes he would take her hand, caressing her fingertips before coaxing her to bed.

A smile tugged at her mouth as she remembered. He had been a gentle lover, bringing her sweetly to fulfilment. Always courteous of her needs, they had found a pattern of comfort within the marriage. The thoughts of Eachan deepened the void of loneliness welling up inside her.

Tonight she would prepare a
craibechan
of chopped bacon mixed with vegetables from the garden. Connor’s comments about her poor cooking skills had chafed at her pride. She would prove him wrong. While she chopped the meat, a muffled pounding sound at the door caught her attention.

‘Aileen!’ Connor called from outside.

She unlatched the door. Connor entered, and upon his face Aileen saw the lines of frustration. He kept his hands behind his back, hiding them from view. She understood his chagrin at not managing the simple task of entering the cottage.

‘Did you have a nice walk, then?’ Signs of fatigue shadowed his face.

Connor held up his hands, the bandages gone. Though he said nothing, accusation glowed in his eyes.

‘Why did you remove the bandages?’ She spoke sharply, her own anger rising. By taking them off too soon, he endangered his healing. ‘You should not have removed them. The splints keep your bones together. They need more time.’

When he didn’t answer, she reached out to his hands. He jerked away, his face lined with fury.

‘Is this your healing, then?’ Connor demanded, holding up his right hand. His skin had healed, but the bones would never be completely straight. She had done all she could for him. He could regain motion, though perhaps not the same range of movement.

‘Sit down.’ She refused to justify herself, when he only wished to rage at her.

‘What did you do to me?’ he growled.

‘I saved your ungrateful life. Now sit down so I can mend the damage you have done,’ she commanded. Without waiting for a reply, she gathered fresh linen and searched for wood to splint his fingers.

How could he be so foolish to remove the bandages this early? Each day was critical for the bones to knit, particularly those in his wrist. His misshapen fingers did not matter. The true damage had harmed his wrist, and this affected all movement.

He remained standing. Aileen sensed an indefinable emotion from the tall warrior. The sun had brought colour into his skin, and his harsh face remained unyielding.

She took his wrist into her hands, his muscled forearms corded with wrath. As she bandaged his hands and wrists, his gaze grew cold. He spoke not a word, his silence damning.

When at last she had finished, she moved back to the forgotten vegetables, picking up her knife. Her hands shook as she sliced them, but she hid the trepidation behind her task.

‘I met a boy this morn,’ he said at last. ‘Whelon is his name.’

Aileen’s knife slipped, and she nicked her finger. She pretended as though he had said nothing. ‘Did you now?’

‘
Rinne mé.
’ Connor took a step closer, but Aileen could not retreat. ‘How did he lose his leg?’

‘He was hurt in a small skirmish with the Normans. He was bleeding badly, and the men made a tourniquet.’ She paled, closing her eyes at the memory. ‘They did not use it properly, and when I removed it, his flesh had already begun to rot. I had to remove the leg to save him. He would have died if I hadn’t.’

‘I have seen a sickness as you’ve described. Men who have lost a great deal of blood often lose their limbs.’

Aileen closed her eyes, trying to block out the boy’s screams from her memory. The men had held him down, and with every move of the blade, it was as though she were cutting her own limb off. By the gods, never did she want to perform such a task again.

‘Whelon wishes to become a soldier,’ Connor revealed. ‘He asked me to train him.’

A fragile smile touched her mouth at the thought of strong-willed Whelon. ‘That has been his dream for a long time.’

‘You should not encourage him,’ Connor warned. He held his hands toward her. Only a thin edge caged his fury.

Aileen set down her knife and faced him. ‘There is always hope.’

‘No. Not for him. And not for me.’

‘Your hands are not as bad as you believe. Broken bones require time to heal.’

‘I won’t become a burden upon my family.’ There was anger and despondency in his voice, though he attempted to keep his tone neutral. ‘Or to you.’

‘You are not a burden.’ She reached out and took his forearms in her palms. ‘If you have needs, ask and I will do what I can to help you.’ But already she could see the resignation upon his face. If he gave up on himself, never would his wounds heal. A grain of despair filled her at the thought.

Connor moved closer until it became impossible to concentrate on the vegetables. She laid down the knife, wondering what he wanted.

Icy grey eyes bore into her. His newly bandaged hands rested on the surface of the table. ‘I do have needs, Aileen. But not ones you can fulfil.’

The accusation in his deep voice was meant to intimidate her. Instead, the rich sound seduced her, making her notice every detail of his handsome face. His mouth tempted her, firm and yet soft. He wore his dark gold hair pulled back with a leather thong, but there were no war braids plaited at his temples. More Viking than Irish, she’d always thought. A small scar rested at the base of his chin, where beard stubble could not grow.

‘If you do not ask for my help, I cannot know what your needs are,’ she said gently. ‘There is no shame in asking.’

He looked away and she saw the pride in his stance. He would not ask, she realised.

‘Why would you try to convince a crippled child that he could be a soldier? Or tell a man with broken hands that one day he will fight again?’

‘I have faith,’ she argued. ‘My healing herbs can do much to help others. And yet there are still miracles I cannot explain.’

Aileen lifted his damaged hands into her own palms. ‘I have held a child born two moons too early in the palm of my hand. He should have died. Instead he grew up to be Lorcan, the boy who found you in the fields.’

Gently she touched the bandages, as if her skin’s warmth could provoke healing. ‘I have seen men live from battle wounds that should have killed them instantly. I believe in a greater power than my own.’

‘Pagan gods?’

She read the doubt upon his face. ‘Both the gods of our ancestors and the Christian God have given hope to many. I’ll not grow into a bitter old woman by crushing the hopes of those I heal.’

‘And what are your hopes, sensible Aileen? Wealth beyond your dreams? Marriage to a king?’

She braved a laugh. ‘I am not that foolish.’

‘What do you want, then?’

‘I want to be a healer again,’ she said. ‘I want them to stop blaming me for what happened.’

‘And what did happen? Why won’t Seamus allow you to heal?’

Her own grief of loss smothered her. She lifted her eyes to his. ‘Whelon is Seamus’s son.’

‘I thought he only had daughters.’ Connor frowned. ‘I suppose he was born after I left?’

She nodded. ‘Whelon was one of his favourites. It has been two years since I removed his leg.’ She expelled a hurt laugh. ‘Seamus blames me for the poison.’

He moved to stand beside her. The remark gave her comfort for it meant he did not side with Seamus. ‘Is that why he does not permit you to treat anyone else?’

She shook her head. ‘It was not until three moons ago that he forbade me to touch another tribe member. His wife Riona bore him twin infant sons. But it was too soon for them to be born.’ Aileen didn’t try to hide the tears that slid down her cheeks. ‘They died a few days later. Seamus believes it was my fault.’