Erinsong Read Free Page B

hold a grudge
against all women just because I was
stabbed by one once,” he said, favoring his good leg a bit more than necessary. “Even if I am a Northman
as you say, I don’t see how you can blame me for this.”
    “Can ye not?” Silver flecks
in her gray eyes flashed at him. He recognized both controlled fury
and lively intelligence in her level gaze. “Ye speak our tongue. That means ‘tis not your first time
on our island. For aught ye know, ye may
have been the leader of that murderous raid. Can ye in good
con science tell me different?” When he
didn’t answer immediately, she turned on her heel and marched up the path behind her father’s
men.
    He stared after her, then
back at the blackened ru ins. Connor gave
him another shove.
    “Get on wi’ye!”
    He stumbled forward,
following Brenna’s sway ing skirt. The
girl was right. He couldn’t deny he might have led the raiders that
killed those crofters. He really had no
clue what sort of man he was. Was he capable of butchering a family—women and children—for no
reason?
    He had no way to know.
    The thought made his head
throb, and he raised his bound hands to
feel the crust of matted hair at his temple. Why couldn’t he remember? He strained to concentrate
as he walked. Disjointed images, indistinct faces, and sudden
flashes of sound split his brain, but nothing coherent
came.
    He must have slowed his pace because Connor
pushed him forward again.
    Better to concentrate on
now . Let the
past trouble about itself.
    His present was trouble enough.
     
     

Chapter Three
     
     
    Sunlight streamed in the
open windows of the scriptorium, sending
dust motes swirling. The call of a song thrush, sharp staccato blasts followed by a trill, floated on
the breeze. The cool waters of the river Shannon called to Brenna,
but she couldn’t answer the summons. There
was too much work to do. She sighed, dipped her stylus in the
shimmering liquid, and turned back to the
nearly transparent sheet of vellum.
    The Gospel of Matthew lay
on the table before her. She squinted, intent on the delicate
interlace she inked in, rim ming the page
with layers of undulating chains. With deft strokes, she added crosshatching in gold over blue. As
she worked, her gaze was drawn to the
text.
     
    ‘ In Ramah was there a voice heard, lamentation,
    And weeping, and great mourning,
    Rachael weeping for her
children, and would not be comforted,
because they are not.’
    An empty ache throbbed in
her chest. She shook her head and focused
on the ornamentation again. As she neared the lower corner of the page, the design wavered and
writhed. Brenna squeezed her eyes shut and
pinched the bridge of her nose. Father
Michael warned her to take frequent breaks
to protect her vision when she was illuminating a manuscript. She’d been at this close work too
long.
    She breathed deeply. The
sharp scent of ink and the com fortable
mustiness of books soothed her. But when she opened her eyes and looked down at the folio, her hand
flew to her mouth. The chain pattern had
grown a serpent’s head and was slinking
off the page and across the table. Blue and gold smeared on the dark oak.
    Brenna leaped to her feet,
sending her chair crashing to the stone
floor behind her. From out in the courtyard, a scream pierced the
air, pulling her to the open window. Clonmacnoise Abbey was overrun by hairy Northmen, their axes
dripping red.
    She turned to flee, but
there was a small bundle on the table
where the vellum had been. A tiny hand stretched out of the coarse blanket and reached toward
her.
    A babe! She snatched up the
child and ran out of the scriptorium and
down the corridor.
    The clatter of footfalls
behind her spurred her on. She felt someone’s hot breath on her nape, and gorge rose in the
back of her throat.
    It was him. She knew it.
She knew he’d be there. He was always there. Dread lay in her belly
like a lump of under done porridge. She
tossed a glance over her shoulder.
    But it wasn’t