Her Irish Warrior, Michelle Willingham [early reader books TXT] 📗

to find shelter for the three of them. The journey back to his brother’s fortress would take days, and there had been no time to retrieve the horses. The voice of doubt sank its teeth into his confidence. He didn’t know if they would make it.

And he had seen no sign of his men. It bothered him, for he knew not if they had escaped detection. In the blackness of the forest, he paused to look back at Rionallís. Fiery torches blazed in the darkness amid the glinting of chain-mail armour. They needed more distance, and he increased their pace.

The slickness beneath his tunic reminded him that he would have to stanch the bleeding. The pain had become a vicious reality, but he had no choice except to move onward. If they stopped now, they were dead.

His brother was keeping up, but Genevieve had started to fall behind. She leaned up against a tree, her arm wrapped around her ribs. ‘Grant me a moment,’ she pleaded, catching her breath.

‘We can’t. They’re following us.’ He studied her, assessing her injuries. Lowering his voice, he asked, ‘Would you rather stay here? Return to them?’

‘No.’ Rebellion blazed in her eyes, and she straightened her shoulders. ‘I’ll never go back to him.’ She steadied herself, then began walking once more.

‘Who is he? Your husband?’

‘My betrothed.’ She increased her pace until they cleared the forest. ‘But no longer. Not if I am free of him.’

They traversed the open field, instinct guiding him upon the right path. Shrouded in darkness, he used the dim glow of light coming from the church. With each step he felt his strength ebbing.

Genevieve must have sensed it, for she stopped him. ‘You need to bind your wounds.’

‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘She’s right, Bevan.’ Ewan gripped his hand. ‘You would not make it much further.’

He didn’t like admitting a weakness, particularly when both of them depended upon him for their survival. Yet he would be no good to them were he to stumble and fall. His gaze fixed upon the lights in the distance. At last he said, ‘I know a place where we can stay. But if there is any sign of Sir Hugh’s men, we must leave.’

When they reached the outskirts of the tenants’ lands, Genevieve motioned towards a beehive-shaped cottage. Bevan shook his head. ‘I’ll not endanger my people.’

There was only one possibility for shelter. He pointed to a round stone tower in the distance that rested beside the church. ‘Stay behind me.’

As they approached they saw that the church was small, but the tower would provide the greatest protection for the night. Bevan spied a candle lit in the window and raised his fist to the door. A tall, thin priest answered his knock. He recognised Father Ó Brian, a quiet man, who had been known to wield a sword in his younger days. He respected the priest, and the man’s strength of faith.

‘We seek a place to stay,’ Bevan said.

The priest glanced at the three of them, his attention caught by the bloodstained tunic. ‘Bevan MacEgan.’ He rubbed the brown beard on his chin and opened the door wider for them to enter. ‘It has been a long time. Almost a year and a half it’s been since you were at Rionallís.’ The priest gestured for them to enter. ‘I am glad to see you. We have prayed for your return since the invaders came.’

Bevan caught the silent censure. But, after Fiona’s death, the emptiness of Rionallís had made it unbearable to stay. For that first year he’d travelled from one tribe to another, hiring his sword. Then, last spring, his people had endured attack and conquest.

He clasped the priest’s arm. ‘We will return again. I swear it.’ His younger brother Ewan’s face flushed with embarrassment. The boy blamed himself for the failed invasion.

‘Good.’ Father Ó Brian gestured towards the small chapel. ‘What can I do to assist you?’

‘We need shelter for the night, and food. Horses on the morrow, if that is possible.’

The priest nodded. ‘I believe the round tower would be best.’ He led them back outside, behind the church. The stone tower stood high against the shadows of the landscape, narrow in diameter. The priest brought a ladder for them to ascend to the entrance, leading the way. Once inside, he closed the door and lowered a rope ladder to the next level.

‘What is this place?’ Genevieve asked.

‘We use it for storage,’ Father Ó Brian replied. ‘But we can also detect our enemies from a distance. It has been here for hundreds of years. Some say the priests used to hide religious treasures in these towers.’

Using a torch for light, he led them up several levels, but did not take them to the top. High above them was the bell used to sound the hours. Six windows surrounded the topmost level. Bevan intended to use them to sight their enemies.

‘There is no fire, but you should be warm enough on this level. There is a pallet, should you wish to sleep.’ Father Ó Brian gestured towards Bevan’s wound. ‘I’ll bring a basin of water to tend your injury—’

‘I’ll tend it,’ Genevieve interrupted. ‘Have you a needle and thread? Some of his wounds are deep.’

The priest inclined his head, and left his torch inside an iron sconce before he departed. After he had gone, Genevieve stared up at the interior of the round tower, past each level to the top.

Wind howled against the stones, a shrieking sound that made Bevan think of evil spirits. Though he was not a superstitious man, he crossed himself. He did not deceive himself by believing they were safe this night.

It took a while until the priest returned, but Father Ó Brian brought bread and mead, along with water and clean strips of linen. He handed Genevieve a small cloth packet containing the needle and thread. Then he left them alone. Ewan lifted the first ladder away, sealing the main entrance, then busied himself with the food.

With Genevieve’s help, Bevan removed