Free Éire’s Captive Moon by Sandi Layne

you do not help.”
    His pleading went for nothing, but Agnarr had decided to use his own methods.
    With a speed that Cowan remembered from the brief battle at the monastery, the Northman grabbed the healer by her upper arm, his hand huge and tanned against her pale skin.
    “No!” Charis heard herself screaming as her husbands’ murderer all but lifted her off the ground again. Oh, she had thoroughly understood what the red-bearded prince had told her; this Northman wanted her to heal one of her enemies! “No! I won’t!”
    Her captor ground out something in his harsh language and practically threw her on top of the young man with the spear in his groin. One angry hand indicated the broken weapon and he made some sort of grunt that sounded like a question.
    She refused to acknowledge his words, but the young Northman moaned, and his eyes fluttered open. A bright path of sunlight pierced the clouds, illuminating the pain-etched, beardless face.
    She could not refuse the plea in those eyes. Eyes not so very different from those of the young men she had known all her twenty-one summers. In spite of the screaming, clawing, wrenching grief inside her chest, Charis had to help. Devin and Devlin would understand. Surely they would. She composed herself, though guilt for their deaths threatened to drown her.
    “I need my things,” she said. “Medicines and stitchery. And I need cloth for bandaging.” While she spoke, she was ripping the cloth of the man’s trousers; a strange garment, since her men wore leggings.
    Her men. More tears burned her eyes as she probed the wound, so she stopped for a moment to clear her vision. My men.
    Revenge burned inside her and for a moment—just a moment—she considered killing the patient before her and then using the same spear in the young man to pierce her captor.
    But no, her men would expect more from her. Charis remembered that, sealed it in clay, and put it deep in her heart. Later. Revenge would come, she promised herself. Later.
    “My things!” she called loudly, finally turning to Cowan. Impatience held nausea at bay. “I need them! If I can’t go to my home, the—the Northman can bid farewell to his man.” The prince nodded, and turned to the Northman. He didn’t speak their captor’s language, but he did manage to make himself understood, Charis observed. Good for him. I will never learn that tongue. Never!
    Four thick-muscled men surrounded her and one pulled her to her feet once more. Charis steadied her guts and clenched her fists for the walk to her home. It was harder than almost anything she could remember doing.
    Moans of the wounded as they died. The grunts and cries of rape. Smoke burned her eyes, smoke from burning mounds of hay and thatched roofs. Blood smeared on faces, arms, bodies, and the discarded garments of the dead and dying. The smells! Stirred earth, spilled innards, and the sharp scent of terror swirled like invisible smoke around her. But Charis tried to bury that. Her home was in front of her and she resolved she was not going to cry again in front of the invaders. Maybe, if she did as they asked, they would let her stay and help—
    Help the children. I hope they’re staying hidden! Stay! She tried to push the words in their direction, hoping beyond reason they would know what to do. She kept her gaze from the distant little fire of the old blacksmith’s hut. Stay hidden!
    “Charis! Healer, help!”
    Muscled arms prevented her from leaving the Northmen and she seethed, hatred for them roiling inside her like old, stewed tea heated anew. Bitter. Strong. She swallowed it down. She had to.
    Her home was before her. Sweet, precious memories seemed to flow from the broken door to greet her, taunting her with the love of two men who would never hold her again. Never tease her, pretend to fight over her, or try to coax her from her herbs in the summertime. Never again.
    The pain was overwhelming. Swooning, Charis made a concentrated effort and