Chapter 2 | Cora

Chapter 2

Cora

S he’d only been a child when her mother died, but Cora remembered that day with perfect clarity. She remembered the acrid smell of burnt herbs and her mother’s blood as the doctor bled her again and again to remove the sickness from her body. Hours later, when her mother’s eyes had closed for the last time, her face had been as white as snow. Cora had buried her face in her mother’s neck and sobbed until her throat was raw. There had been nothing in that moment but agony and the smell of blood.

That same agony enveloped her like a heavy cloak as she made her way through the village. The first burnt-out husk of a home belonged to an elderly woman and her two small grandchildren. Dried blood and ash streaked their skin, evidence of what they’d endured. She’d sent them away when the invaders came, and they’d run right into a thicket of thorny bushes to hide. When they’d seen her collapse after being struck, they’d left their hiding place and come back to protect her. That they hadn’t died alongside her had been a miracle unto itself.

It was the same everywhere she turned. Over and over, she’d clean one wound to be presented with three more. She’d sew a cut closed only to find the body of someone who’d bled out before she could get to them. She used every bit of the comfrey and willow bark she’d brought along. Brewed pot after pot of tea. Pressed cups into hands until she couldn’t remember the faces that went with them. The pointless and all-encompassing agony squeezed in all around her like a fog. So many dead or injured. So many without hope or answers or anything at all except for the knowledge that everything they held dear was gone.

She worked for what felt like years without rest. How could she stop when there were still people in need? She’d cried the first time she recognized one of the bodies. By the tenth, she was numb. The ache settled in her chest like a stone, but there were still people in need. Still more hands reaching for her and more blood to wipe away.

By the time she heard her father’s horses in the distance, she and Cormac had seen to most of the survivors. They thundered into the village like the devil himself ran behind them with Lord Fergus in the lead. He brought them to a quick halt once they reached the village center. When his eyes found her, Cora saw the same hopelessness that threatened to consume her.

For a moment, she imagined running into his arms. As a child, any time life had been too difficult, the night too dark, or the sadness too great, her father had been the port in her storm of uncertainty and fear. She’d struggled since childhood with nerves, and the near-constant shaking in her hands during times of trouble infuriated her to no end. As a child, her father would take her hands in his and stroke them until she calmed. The urge to revert to old habits was strong after a trying day.

Before she could decide, her father dismounted and strode toward her. “Cora! What are you doing here, lass? Where’s your escort?”

Cora pointed toward the village’s makeshift cemetery. “He’s there,” she said tiredly. “They’ve been digging new graves for hours.”

Her father ran his hands over her face and hair as if assuring himself that she was still whole. She brushed his hands away and frowned. “I’m fine, Father. These people were not so lucky.”

“You shouldn’t have come!” he protested. “Why didn’t you ride for home? The boy said the attackers were Englishmen. What were you thinking, girl? What if they’d taken you?”

Cora smoothed her skirt, dusting away the mud and ash as best she could. There was no helping the blood—her shirt was likely beyond saving with all the bloodstains—but it still felt like she ought to try. It hadn’t mattered before—no one had cared a whit when she was busy setting bones and wrapping bloody injuries. In front of her father, though, she felt that somehow the signs of her labor were evidence of a sin rather than a badge of honor.

“The invaders were gone by the time we arrived,” she said. “I was thinking that our people here needed help. There was no time to waste with so many injured.”

Some of the relief in her father’s eyes shifted to anger. “But you didn’t know they’d be gone, did you? Christ Almighty, of all the fool things! If they had seen you—if they’d known who you were—you could be on your way to England by now to be held for ransom! I’ll see Cormac thrashed for letting you anywhere near here!”

“No!” Cora clenched her fists to calm the trembling. “It wasn’t his doing! I was the one who ran off. Once we were here, what else could we do but help? Look around you—all those who died—”

“And you could have been one of them!” her father bellowed, his voice echoing in the surrounding air.

“My Lord?”

What was left of the village’s population had gathered around them at her father’s arrival. Battered, ash-streaked, and bloody, they knelt before their lord. One of the older boys—one of only two fighting-age lads left—lifted his head. His lip was split, and his clothes were torn and bloodied, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Begging your pardon, My Lord, but the Lady Cora... she saved my mam. One of the English bastards snuck past me and...” he paused, his throat working as though the words were painful to say. “They got my da, and my younger brother. My mam was hiding in the house when they found her. Cut her up, they did, Sir. I thought she’d die in my arms. But Lady Cora stopped the bleeding. Got her all bandaged up, and now she’s only sleeping. Not dead, Sir, only sleeping.”

Her father stared at the boy, the anger fading from his expression until all that was left was a tired sort of resignation. He gestured to one of his men. “Spread out and see what needs to be done. Load up anyone who’s left. Bring the wounded to the castle and find transport to take the able-bodied to Waterford. They’ll find lodging and work there.”

“What of our homes? Our livestock? What of our lives here?” This time, the question came from a woman old enough to be Cora’s mother. Her long, dirty gray hair hung loose down her back, and she clutched a small rosary in her hands.

Her father sighed and shook his head. “My apologies, Madam, but you can’t stay here. Your homes are gone, your animals have fled, and your fields are burnt to ash. It’ll be at least a year, maybe more, before this land will recover from the fires. There’s nothing left for you here. You must leave.”

Tears streaked down the woman’s face, but she nodded in agreement.

Things moved quickly after that. Her father’s men carried everything from children to a few frightened chickens to a cart they’d salvaged from the wreckage of the village. They loaded those too injured to make the journey to Waterford onto makeshift pallets and dragged them behind the soldiers’ horses. Cora helped where she could, ignoring the looks her father gave her as she moved from person to person. Though he hadn’t said as much, she knew he would have preferred her to run. He’d have accepted their people’s lives as forfeit as long as she’d been safe.

But she couldn’t be safe. Not as long as the Englishmen were bold enough to attack a village so close to their homes. There was nowhere in all of Ossory safe as long as Edwin’s troops threatened war with every violent act.

When they were finally mounted and headed for home, Cora directed Epona next to her father’s horse. They rode in silence for several long minutes, but finally, she asked, “Would you really have had me run? Even knowing that I could help?”

Her father sighed heavily and ran a hand down his face. “ A stór , someday you will learn there are things a man never gambles with. There are things too precious to risk losing, no matter the cost to keep them. You are my dearest and only daughter, and if anything had happened to you, I—” he paused, cleared his throat, and continued. “It’s my duty to keep you safe, lass.”

“And it’s my duty to serve my people,” she argued. “You’ve said so yourself. They needed help, and I could provide it. Isn’t that what you’ve trained me for all these years?”

Her father snorted. “I didn’t train you to take on Edwin’s bloody army all by yourself, now did I?”

They went quiet for a moment, lost in their own thoughts and lulled by the sound of hoofbeats on the worn road. Finally, her father spoke again. “I hear what you’ve said, Cora. I hear so much of your mother in your words that I can hardly be surprised that you follow her actions as well. But keeping our lands safe is my duty, not yours.” He fixed her with a hard stare. “You’re not to do something so reckless again. I will reach out to our allies and request aid in repelling the English. With any luck, one of the other lords will have men to spare.”

“If they don’t?” she asked, simply for the sake of being ornery.

“Well then, I suppose I’ll have to look into other avenues, won’t I? But I will find a way to protect our people. Don’t you doubt that.”

Her father’s promise ringing in her ears, Cora turned her thoughts from the village. If they’d already had reinforcements to protect their land, she wouldn’t have had to be there. The English might have been beaten back so badly that they would never set foot in Ireland again.

But then, she thought of Niall running away from the village—away from his family—for help. They’d all died. Not a single member of his family had survived the attack, and now Niall had no one left in the world. Cora bit the inside of her cheek, willing herself to ignore the sharp ache in her chest at the thought of the wild-haired little boy.

She prayed her father would find a plan soon.