Devil's Angel (2 page)

Coincidences were not something that Conor had much faith in. If the woman was truly the notorious Angel of Death, why was she in Connacht? Why attack his poor village? Why look at him with such hatred in her eyes?

He would have been well within his rights had he slain the Angel in battle. But the Viking female had captured his curiosity. No, she would not die soon.

The Devil was a patient man. He would find the answers he sought. When he did, all the angels in heaven and hell would not keep this angel safe.

Chapter Two

“How many dead?”

Abbott Brochadh folded his hands. “Four. Two more may die before sunrise. One lost an arm, one an eye and two are lame.”

Conor’s hand clenched around his tankard as the priest recited the names. Each man’s face floated before his eyes, settling into his memory. Dunlough’s warriors were a fierce and proud group, unafraid to face death in defense of their homes. Conor’s people would celebrate their fallen heroes tonight. He would not participate, nor did his people expect him to. The
bhean sidhe
would be wailing on Slieve Torc tonight, and there Conor would be.

Repressing his guilt with thoughts of retribution, he thanked the priest. When the holy man took his leave, he turned to Ardan. “Has my sister seen to our fair-haired guests?”

Ardan took a deep swallow of his ale before replying. “Lady Gwynna and Old Aine are with the white witch now. The brother could still die.”

“Brother?” Conor sat forward, his tankard crashing against the table. “Why claim you such a thing?”

“Old Aine is certain.”

If the old healer believed it to be so, it was enough. Rising to his feet, he moved to the hearth, digesting the news. A brother. That would certainly explain the horrified look on the Valkyrie’s face when the man slammed into her during the battle. ’Twas apparent she cared for him. That care could be a weakness, one that Conor would exploit most ruthless to acquire the answers he sought.

Ardan turned on the bench to face him. “Are you certain we have captured the Angel of Death?”

“’Tis certain she fits the rumors we’ve heard for the last several months. Know you another female warrior riding about our land?”

“You should have beheaded her when you had the chance.”

Conor raised an eyebrow. “In her condition? It would not have been fair.”

“There was no need to be fair. The accursed witch wanted to kill you!”

“True, but there must be more here than we see. Besides, if the Viking female is the Angel of Death, she is worth much more to us alive than dead.”

“And if not?”

“Then she will pay, in one manner or another, for what she did to our village.”

He gestured for Ardan to follow him as he turned to the door. They walked down a short stone corridor to a thick wooden door. Clasping the braided cord around his neck, Conor pulled out a key, fit it to the lock and threw open the door. “Come, Ardan, and tell me what you think of these weapons.”

The older man followed Conor into the room, a small, circular chamber lit by two well-placed torches. The only piece of furniture was a narrow wooden table that occupied the center of the room. But it wasn’t the table that drew the eye.

It was the weapons.

They hung everywhere, these instruments of death. Great battle-axes, broadswords, short-swords, spears. Bows and arrows and shields. By any standard it was an impressive collection. What made it extraordinary, Ardan knew, was that every last weapon had once belonged to one of Conor’s enemies.

Only four swords, grouped alone near the door, had not belonged to adversaries. They belonged to Conor’s elder brother and three nephews, all lost in the great battle two years prior.

Ardan approached the table. It held a striking array of weapons: a broadsword, two short-swords, two great axes, and a rune-etched leather quiver full of arrows. A leather sheath with a long knife and leather scabbards and baldrics for the swords. A chainmail shirt and helmet with mail attached at the neck were at the bottom of the pile. All were covered with dried blood.

“Fine craftsmanship,” Ardan said in approval, fingering the runes on the scabbard. “More than a mercenary raiding fishing villages could afford. Unless they were stolen?”

“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.