Free Éire’s Captive Moon by Sandi Layne Page B

right out of the rawhide sheath at her waist. Angry, she moved to stop him, but his knowing look stopped her instead.
    “Wait,” the son of Branieucc had cautioned her almost silently. “Wait. I have a plan.”
    Then the big, hairy leader had barked something and Cowan spread his hands to soothe their captor.
    Devin would have strangled them both, Charis thought. And then she had to clench her eyes shut to the pain. Her hands stilled but then resumed their work.
    “Charis,” her new patient growled gutturally at her as she took a needle to thread the man’s skin flaps together.
    Charis wanted to pretend she didn’t understand, but her own name was difficult to avoid. She was far too occupied with pushing her desperation, fear and anguish down deep. For answer, she met the frightening, powerfully direct blue eyes.
    He shook his head and grabbed her wrist. Not painfully, she had to admit. Firmly. “ Né ,” he said. Repeating the syllable, he shook his head once more. No .
    She understood and jerked her hand out of his loosening clasp. No stitching the wound together? How did he expect her to heal him?
    Barbarian .
    Therefore, she had merely packed the wound with powdered willow bark and bandaged him, wrapping strips of linen around his jaw and head to anchor the cloth. She had not hurt him further.
    No, that would wait, she decided now, as she sat tied to a tree. No one was watching her, she hoped.  
    Devin! Devlin! She could let her tears flow freely. Their bodies were now being hefted to the top of a heap. “No!” she screamed, her voice raking through the death-charged air with ragged edges. “No! Don’t!”
    Wails rose from all the captives as the pile of their dead was set ablaze by laughing Northmen. Charis shut her eyes, wishing she could find oblivion.
    “Healer,” Prince Cowan called from where he was bound, a body’s length away. “Was that your husband?”
    Charis almost didn’t answer, for she saw her fellow islander as an extension, of sorts, of the Northman who had killed her men, because he was speaking for them. Ducking her head to wipe her eyes on the soiled shoulder of her léine , she coughed to try to clear her throat. “Two of them, yes. He murdered them!”
    Her red-bearded countryman expressed his sorrow, but she didn’t know if he was sincere or just trying to get her to stop crying. Men hated tears.
    Her grief turned inward in the next moment. Men. Her men. The braided Northman might have murdered them, but it had been she herself who had set them up for that.
    Her mind started spinning and her tongue felt numb. Her eyes rolled back and—
    Oblivion came at last.

    Cowan closed his eyes in brief prayer when the healer lost consciousness. Why had the monk at the monastery called her a witch? Cowan did not know and did not want to think that one as fair as she was could be a witch. He hadn’t seen her use any magic on the wounded young man. Yet, the beardless Northman was now being eased onto a blanket, waving slowly and laughing at some jest. Had he truly been on the edge of death earlier?
    Is she a witch? Could she have healed him without the devil’s help?
    Cowan shook the question off and instead fingered the sharp dagger he had taken from the pale-haired woman. A God-given opportunity had presented itself and Cowan had to fight to suppress the fierce smile that threatened.
    He darted a look around. Agnarr was occupied with seeing to what scant treasure might be found in such a village. Cowan almost snorted at the futility of that. What had the Northman come here for anyway? The monasteries were where the treasure of Éire rested.
    Agnarr was not heeding him . That was what mattered. Neither was Agnarr’s second-in-command. Cowan slid the knife from its hiding place under his leather belt. He had kept himself bent over since he had taken it from the healer. Sweat broke on his brow as he tried to keep his movements secret and small.
    When the edge of the knife was sawing at the