Breanne followed her, and as they neared the men, she cast a look at Alarr, waiting for permission. He inclined his head and said, ‘You may go with her.’ Then he added, ‘But do not run away.’
His warning irritated her, for she did possess honour. Caragh and Styr had offered their hospitality, food, and shelter. She would not try to run—not when she now knew Alarr’s intent was to ransom her. If she bided her time, she would reach home once again. The thought brought an aching within her, the fervent desire to be back at Killcobar.
And yet, she somehow sensed that it would not be the same again.
Alarr rose at dawn to work alongside the men. Although the morning air was cool, they had stripped off their tunics, wearing only hose. Each man had a scythe for cutting the wheat, and Styr divided the fields so that the men were spread out over different sections. The sun had just risen, and the scent of ripened grain filled the air.
Alarr welcomed the physical activity, for it gave him time to think. The motion of swinging the scythe caught him in a rhythm, and he allowed his mind to drift. It was backbreaking work, but he found satisfaction in watching the stalks fall to the ground.
Behind the men, the women gathered the fallen stalks. He kept a close eye on Breanne to ensure that she had no intention of escaping. She had bound her hair beneath a length of cloth like the other women, and she wore a gown with a wide apron. The women followed behind the men, gathering the stalks of wheat in their aprons, before they returned to place the grain in large baskets. Some of the older women and children were seated with large baskets, running the stalks through their fingers to harvest the wheat berries.
Alarr turned back to the field, slicing through the grain in a steady motion. He kept his steps slow, to disguise his limp. As he worked, he tried to piece together the faces of the men who had come to his wedding. But the only face that remained constant in his memory was Feann. The king’s men had surrounded the longhouse and set it on fire, slaughtering those inside. The wedding celebration had transformed into a horrifying vision of blood and death. The images were burned into his memory, and he would never forget. Nor could he ever imagine another marriage, if he happened to survive the fight with Feann. The ceremony was tainted with bloodshed for ever.
He glanced back at Breanne. Her steady look held curiosity, but now that she knew he was taking her home, she seemed content to wait. At least, for a time.
They worked from morning until early afternoon, when Styr called a halt to their harvesting. Caragh arranged for the women to bring meat, cheese, and bread to the labourers, along with pitchers of cold water from the stream. Alarr’s arms were aching, and although it was not warm, he was sweating from the hard work.
He saw Breanne joining the other women near a large stretch of cloth. They had gathered baskets of wheat berries atop it, and the women each held on to an edge of the cloth, lifting it into the air. They shook the wheat to separate the chaff, and one of the women began singing. Though she did not know their language, he saw Breanne learning the song, and she joined in. The sunlight shone against her face, and she smiled at the other women as she worked and sang.
For a time, Alarr watched her. Strands of reddish-gold hair framed her cheeks, and she was flushed from the warmth of the sun. Rurik came up beside him and saw the direction of his gaze. ‘Don’t,’ he warned.
‘Don’t what?’ Alarr feigned ignorance, though he knew full well what his brother meant. Against his better judgement, he glanced back at Breanne and saw her watching him. Her expression was not one of disinterest, and she flushed before looking away. Alarr turned back, feeling a sense of satisfaction.
‘You have to take her back to Killcobar. She’s not yours to keep as a concubine,’ Rurik warned. ‘No matter how fair she is.’
‘I know that.’ Even so, it didn’t mean he couldn’t admire what he saw. Alarr walked alongside his brother to a different part of the field and picked up his scythe again. He cut a pathway through the grain, slicing the wheat. Rurik joined him in silence. The exertion felt good, and he was able to hide his limp as he moved slowly. Behind him, the women began gathering sheaves again, and several children helped them. He spied a young girl with dark hair, laughing as she picked up the grain. The sight of the child filled him with a sense of remorse. Had Gilla lived, he might have sired a child by now. But it was more likely that he would never have children.
He sobered at the thought and glanced at the horizon ahead. One fortnight from now, he would face Feann and gain the answers he sought.
The desire for revenge had kept him from falling into despair. During the nights of agony while his flesh had knit itself together last year, he had envisioned Feann falling beneath his blade. It had given him a reason to live, for the gods knew he was now worthless as a fighter. The image of Feann’s death was branded in his mind, an inevitable task that he intended to fulfil.
‘Alarr,’ his brother interrupted his thoughts, nodding towards the other men. ‘What are your plans to get us inside Killcobar?’
‘We will use Breanne’s knowledge of the structure and its defences.’ He needed to know all about the interior of Killcobar, and she would give him the
