A Promise Kept Read online

  “I do not think so.” Conor pulled free the broadsword. The blade gleamed in the torchlight, catching the runes etched upon it. A grand amount of silver wire chased a massive purple crystal on the pommel.

  “Look at this jewel,” he said, turning the pommel to Ardan. “The Angel’s eyes are the same color.”

  “You noticed the color of her eyes while she was trying to kill you?”

  “The eyes are the windows to the soul. You yourself taught me that to read eyes is to read my enemy’s intent.”

  He replaced the blade. “I was not so caught by the unusual color of her eyes that I wasn’t aware of her hatred. And it was hatred, Ardan, as if I had personally wronged her.”

  “Have you?”

  Perplexed, Conor shook his head. “I have never seen the Valkyrie before today, and I’ve not fought Northmen in two years.”

  They left the weapons room, returning to the hall. “There must be more to the Angel of Death and her brother than the fables we have heard,” Conor said. “I would have you find those answers. Start at the village. Discover all you can about our guests.”

  He moved to the main hearth. “You have two days. Get a good night’s rest and set out at dawn.”

  “Two days?” Ardan’s incredulity shone through in his voice. “Do you mean to summon a law-giver to decide the Angel’s fate?”

  “No.”

  Conor’s voice grated above the crackling of the fire. “I will decide the Angel’s fate. It is possible our friends to the north are responsible for this day. If so, you will discover the truth soon enough. If not, once the Angel realizes I hold the very minutes of her life, she will tell me what I seek. I promise you that.”

  Ardan left. Conor stared into the flames, fingering the scar on his cheek. For the second time in his life, a woman had tried to kill him. The first time had been his wife, but she had been near insanity. This woman, the Angel of Death, was far from it.

  He remembered the look in those amethyst eyes as she swung her blade toward his skull. Hatred and the white-hot desire to kill.

  He had never seen the Angel of Death before, and as far as he knew, she had never seen him. In fact, the latest tales about her had come from the south, near Limerick. So why had she been so intent upon killing him? Had he killed someone she knew, someone she loved?

  Conor shook his head. He felt neither love nor hate for the fair-haired foreigners. Northmen were well and embedded in the fabric of the island, intermarrying with nobles and freemen alike, establishing trade and even fighting with the Irish against their kindred. And to be sure, there were just as many natives committing deeds as heinous as those contributed to the Northmen. He did not go out of his way to kill anyone, foreign or native, save an Ulsterman foolish enough to cross his border. Perhaps the Valkyrie’s morals were not so noble.

  Leaving the fire, Conor headed deeper into the dun. He stopped at a stout door flanked by two guards, one of whom opened the door for him. The chamber inside was little more than a cell, its only luxury an anemic fire burning in the minuscule hearth. The smell of burning peat failed to dampen the scent of blood and sweat and pain.

  Two more guards and Conor’s sister were by the pallet on the floor. The sentries looked as if they had been in a scuffle. Their tunics were in disarray, scratches and welts covered their faces and arms, and both had more than a little blood on them. Gwynna applied a cloth to her patient’s forehead. Old Aine sat on a stool near the hearth, asleep.

  When Conor moved toward the pallet, Gwynna climbed to her feet. He felt a momentary pride. His sister was a gifted healer, having learned herb-lore from the oral histories of generations of Dunlough and Druid women like Aine. Danu knew he’d put her skills to test on more than one occasion and would again.

  Blood drenched the front of her dress and her face was pinched with fatigue. Concerned, he led her to the room’s only chair and poured her a cup of wine. He nodded toward the guards. “I take it that your charge did not submit willing to your care?”

  Gwynna pushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “She awakened while the guards were carrying her in. She thought they were taking her to be executed and ’tis certain she does not wish to die.”

  “Fought like a hellcat, she did,” one of the guards added. “Beg pardon, milady.”

  Amused, Conor folded his arms as Gwynna glared at the guards. “You both will be after a bit of ale,” he observed. “Help yourself to the barrel, and tell Cook to prepare a meal for Lady Gwynna and Aine.”

  The guards made a hasty retreat. Conor poured his sister another cup of wine, which she gulped with a sigh. “That is an extraordinary woman you have captured.” She patted her face dry with a clean cloth. “She threatened to consign me to the bowels of the Viking Hel if I took her leg off. She also threatened me with further horrors if I did not save her brother.”

  Noting the wry pout to Gwyn’s mouth, he asked, “What did you do?”

  Aine stirred herself then. “True to your blood, she was,” the old woman said, her eyes the color of moss. Her hair was pure white, her lively face unlined. She could have been thirty or sixty or two hundred. In Conor’s twenty-five years, Aine had always been old.

  The Druid woman got to her feet. “Gwynna told her that if she could not lie still, she would shave her bald.”

  A tired smile of remembrance lit Gwynna’s face. “It worked.”

  Conor coughed what passed as a laugh from him. Gwynna joined in, then hushed him with a glance to the pallet. “She sleeps for now. Let’s keep it that way, so I do not have to threaten her more.”

  “What of the man? The one you believe to be her brother?”

  Gwynna didn’t answer him at once, causing him to swing towards her. Her cheeks were flushed, as if with fever, and she appeared flustered. “Gwyn?”

  She jumped, startled. “I have done my best, with Aine’s help. But his wounds are dire. I will return to him when I am done here.”

  Moving to the makeshift pallet, Conor stared down at his would-be slayer. With the dirt and blood bathed away, and the pain eased by slumber, the warrior’s beauty shone through. The luminous quality of it struck him like physical blows. Pale curls that had escaped the braid were stained gold by candlelight. Those full lips would be devastating in a smile, even with the defiant chin jutting above the slim neck. He knew her skin to be as smooth as satin. Did her lips taste as sweet as they looked?

  He shook his head, disturbed by his winsome and overwhelming reaction to this woman. “I can see why they call her Angel.”

  Aine returned to the bed, Gwynna beside her. One gnarled hand touched a pale cheek. “The Angel of Death. Among her people, such a one is gifted with the ability to see signs and portends, and prepares the dead for their final journey.”

  “How do you know of such things?” Conor asked, surprised.

  The old woman gave him an enigmatic smile. “It is my calling.”

  Her voice filled with pity as she gazed down at the pale woman. “So young to have such a name.”

  “How old do you think her to be?”

  “No more than our Gwynna, I would say, a score of years or so. She is not new to the warrior’s way. Her arms are strong enough to handle a sword, and she has calluses on her hands.”

  “What could have happened in her life to make her take up the sword?” Gwynna asked.

  Conor stared at his sister. “What do you mean? ’Tis obvious she enjoys it, else she’d not have ridden about Eire these last two years.”

  Gwynna shook her head again. “You may know the way of a warrior, brother, but I know the way of a woman. Look at her. Her beauty is undeniable. Her manner is that of someone accustomed to being obeyed. I am sure she is of noble lineage, despite the lash marks.”

  “Lash marks?”

  Solemn eyes regarded him. “She has several old scars. Some are on her back, and another trails along her left arm to her wrist.”

  “Perhaps she was an unruly slave.”

  It was Aine who answered.
“I’m doubting that, my lord. I do not believe she was born here. No one knew of the Angel before last year, and ’tis certain a woman like that would be memorable. She probably came from Denmark or Anglia.”

  “Betrothed to a powerful man, and one she did not favor,” Gwynna added, clearly taken by the tale. “Perhaps her brother was banished for some reason and she left with him. What else could make her turn from a life of wealth and privilege?”

  Conor frowned. His sister’s words had the effect of making the Viking woman more human, and he didn’t like it. “We will find out soon enough, if she wakes.”

  “Her left arm deflected most of the blow to her side,” Gwynna informed him, “but the wound was still deep, as was the gash on her leg. After I convinced her of my skill, she allowed me to stitch the wounds. When I finished, she shuddered once and slipped out of consciousness.”

  He couldn’t help but admire a woman with such mettle. Most women became queasy at the sight of blood. He doubted if even his sister could quietly watch someone stitch her up.

  Ruthless, he dampened his growing regard for the Viking. Admirable or not, she was responsible for many lives this day, including the people in the village. “Will she live?”

  When Gwynna nodded, Conor strode to the door. Yanking it open, he beckoned the two guards inside. “Take the Viking to the pit and put her in chains.”

  Gwynna was aghast. “Conor, you cannot mean that. She is a wounded woman!”

  He swung to face her. “A woman who tried to kill me and did kill several of our people, or did you forget? Even now she should be dead.”

  “And why is she not?”

  Aine’s quiet question halted his diatribe and movements. How many more would question his actions? It was his right to destroy her. Yet when and why had he made the decision to spare her? It could not be that he was taken by her comeliness. He knew firsthand how treacherous a beautiful woman could be.

  “The Angel of Death is a prize many have sought,” he finally said. “She will be of use to Dunlough.”

  Aine’s mossy eyes measured him, and Conor wondered what she witnessed. “You’ll do what you must, and well we know it. But remember this, Conor mac Ferghal: with this woman, things are not always as they appear to be.”

  Conor inclined his head, acknowledging her words and the tone in which she’d said them. Christian or pagan, one did not fail to give Aine the respect that was her due. Her utterances were always full of wisdom when they could be understood.

  “I will remember what you say, but neither of you will gainsay me in this. She is not called the Angel of Death for sport. Until I know the truth about the Valkyrie, she is to be a prisoner.”

  Chapter Three

  Pain.

  It was the first thing she was aware of. Agonizing pain that arced up her legs to her side then to her arm. Endless, unrelenting waves of pain that hammered at her will.

  Erika welcomed the pain. At least it kept her from dwelling too much on her failure.

  Without opening her eyes, she sensed her surroundings. Her neck, legs and arms were shackled together, with just enough length in the chain to allow her to lie in sparse straw. She wore only a thin shift too small for her and a blanket riddled with holes. Stalks of straw pierced through the threadbare material and into the skin of her legs and back. Tightness surrounded the aches in her right leg, left arm and left side. Bandages.

  Someone had treated her, Erika realized. Why go to the trouble of healing a prisoner? Why hadn’t the tall warrior killed her when he had the chance?

  She remembered the hill. She saw Larangar take a thrust to the chest. A cold certainty told her that her dearest friend was dead. But what of Olan? What of her twin?

  She struggled to remember. After his mail broke, deflecting a blow meant for her, several arrows had hit Olan. Yet she could still, weakly, sense her twin in the back of her head, the sense that told her he was alive.

  Lars dead, Olan near death, herself captured—and to what purpose? She had failed in her duty, failed to destroy the vile creature that ravaged the poor village they had ridden through. She had promised the villagers vengeance, and she had failed them.

  The failure cut deeply. Never before in her life had she been unable to fulfill a vow she’d made.

  Mentally she cursed her fate. In her mind she could still see him, the towering warrior who was her nemesis. As tall as Larangar and Olan—who were considered giants—her personal demon had been dressed completely in black, with dark hair spilling past his shoulders, eyes like thunderclouds and a menacing scar that ran from his left temple through his close-cropped beard to his chin. He fit closely to what the Irish monks described as the Christian devil.

  Erika ground her teeth in frustration, for a moment close to tears. Angrily, she brushed them away. Tears would not save her, not from a man heartless enough to ransack a village full of women and children. She forced herself to remain still, even though the pain made her want to writhe and scream in agony. Her mind raced with plans, for she knew that while there was breath left in her body, there was still opportunity for vengeance.

  She would make the Devil pay for what he did. Or she would die trying.

  BY THE FEEBLE LIGHT of a single torch, Conor watched the Valkyrie feign sleep. The earthen room, scarce large enough for both of them, had no windows and only one heavy, ironbound wooden door. Light was not a common occurrence for the occupants of this pit. Yet the light found her, illuminating the silvery braid and pale skin, making her seem an apparition.

  The shift Gwynna had found for her was too thin and too small. He could see the supple length of her legs beneath its hem. Even in the sputtering light, he noticed the flat stomach and a surprising small waist for so tall a woman. He could also see the firm, high breasts that pushed against the flimsy fabric of the bodice.

  How long had she walked the warrior’s path? Years, ’twas certain. Her grace with a sword could not be learned in a year’s time. Yet if a sword did not protect a man at all times, truer than true it would not protect a woman. How many men, he wondered, had she given herself to when her sword proved useless?

  He felt the desire that had sprung alive in him and shook his head, erasing his sudden need. He had been too long without a woman if he was attracted to this bloodthirsty wench.

  His anger returned as he remembered the faces of the dead. “Open your eyes, Angel of Death,” he ordered. “I know you are awake.”

  Against her better judgment, Erika obeyed the harsh command. Every part of her body ached, even her hair. Opening her eyes only intensified the torment. But she would look upon the face of evil and prove herself unafraid.

  Her devil, she discovered, was a man.

  He sat on a rough-hewn bench. A torch protruded from the packed earth of a wall, casting meager light between them. It was enough. His legs were well muscled and covered with dark hair. His leine, a knee-length tunic made of soft wool, did nothing to conceal the girth of his shoulders and chest, broad enough to support the strength evident in his powerful arms. She could not see his face clearly, obscured as it was by shadows and dark sheets of hair that hung past his shoulders, but she could see his eyes.

  Unnerving.

  His eyes glinted in the dim torchlight. Erika would swear she saw both the lightning of Thor’s hammer and the fires of the Christian hell burning in their depths.

  She was doomed.

  “Are you the one called Angel of Death?”

  The Devil’s voice rumbled deep and harsh as he spoke fluid Latin. She barely quelled the shudder that snaked through her. It was easy to believe that she had entered eternal punishment. She had failed to protect the poor of this verdant land, a land that she had fallen in love with at first sight. Now she would have to pay for that failure with her very life.

  Every extremity shrieking in protest, Erika struggled to a sitting position. Flames of pain danced before her eyes, stealing her breath. She might well die this day, but as long as her heart beat, she would fight the
man before her.

  Defiant and proud, Erika raised her chin, the heavy iron collar biting into her neck. Even that small act caused pain to radiate through her. Through gritted teeth she finally answered him in Gaelic. “My name matters not. You need only to know that I am your enemy.”

  A low sound wafted toward her. It took a moment to recognize the noise as laughter because it held little in the way of mirth. “I admire your courage, but it will not do in the stead of sense,” the dark warrior admonished her. “I know you are my enemy. I would have you tell me why.”

  Erika’s temper climbed, driving her to her feet despite her agony and the heavy chains. “You dare to question the cause for enmity between us?” she asked, disdain rising like bile in her throat. “You, who are the embodiment of all I hate about this land?”

  The harsh accusation brought Conor to his feet. He stepped forward, out of the shadows. “You would do well to guard your tongue, Lady Death. Men have died for less than your insult.”

  To his surprise and secret pleasure, the Valkyrie did not recoil at the sight of his ravaged features. She thrust her face forward, her eyes sparking with fire and passion.

  “Are you so easily wounded, Devil, by words alone?” she asked. “Prepare to be slain, then, for I have more darts to let fly!”

  Conor growled. He had never struck a woman on purpose in his life. He was not about to begin, no matter how much she goaded him. “I warn you again, Viking wench, to guard your tongue. The sole reason you yet live is to answer my questions!”

  The pale-haired woman had the temerity to laugh. “Then you would do well to attempt to kill me now. For I have nothing more to say to you than this: pray for God to cleanse the blood of innocents from your hands, for if I am able I will send you to Him for judgment!”

  For a lightning-quick moment, Conor almost laughed. Attempt to kill her? He could snap her neck with one deft twist of his hands. Attempt indeed! Then he registered the rest of her vehement declaration.