Excerpt of To Sin With A Viking by Michelle Willingham

Ireland, 875 A.D.

The tribe was slowly starving to death.

Caragh Ó Brannon stared at the grain sack, which was nearly
empty. One handful of oats remained, hardly enough for
anyone. She closed her eyes, wondering what to do. Her older
brothers, Terence and Ronan had left a fortnight ago, to
trade for more food. She’d given them a golden brooch that
had belonged to their mother, hoping someone would trade
sheep or cows for it. But this famine was widespread, making
anyone reluctant to give up their animals.

“Is there anything to eat, Caragh?” her younger brother
Brendan asked. At seventeen, his appetite was three times
her own, and she’d done her best to keep him from growing
hungry. But it was now evident that they would run out of
food sooner than she’d thought.

Instead of answering, she showed him what was left. He
sobered, his thin face hollow from lack of food. “We haven’t
caught any fish, either. I’ll try again this morning.”

“I can make a pottage that we can eat later,” she offered.
“I’ll go and look for wild onions or carrots.” Though she
tried to interject a note of hope, both of them knew that
the forests and fields had been stripped long ago. There was
nothing left, except the dry summer grasses.

Brendan reached out and touched her shoulder. “Our brothers
will come back. And when they do, we’ll have plenty to eat.”

In his face, she saw the need to believe it, and she braved
a smile she didn’t feel. “I hope so.”

After he went outside with his fishing net, Caragh stared
back at the empty hut. Both of their parents had died last
winter. Her father had gone out to try and catch fish, and
he’d drowned. Her mother had grieved deeply for him, never
recovering from the loss. She’d given her own portion of
food to Brendan, lying that she’d already eaten. When they’d
discovered the truth, it was too late to prevent her death.

So many had succumbed to starvation, and it bled Caragh’s
conscience to know that both of her parents had died, trying
to feed their children.
Hot tears rose up as she stared at her father’s forge. He’d
been a blacksmith, and she was accustomed to hearing the
ring of his hammer, watching the bright glow of hot metal as
he shaped it into tools. Her heart was as heavy as the
anvil, knowing she would never hear his broad laugh again.

Though his boat remained, she didn’t have the courage to
face the larger waves. Her brothers knew how to sail, but
none of them had ventured out again. It was as if evil
spirits lingered, cursing the broken vessel that had
returned without their father.

She wished they could leave Gall Tír. This desolate land had
nothing left. But they lacked the supplies to travel very
far on foot. They should have gone last summer, after the
crops had failed to flourish. At least then, they would have
had enough to survive the journey. Even if they traveled by
sea, they had not enough food to sustain them beyond a day.

The hand of Death was stretched out over everyone, and
Caragh had felt her own weakness changing her. She could
hardly walk for long distances without growing faint, and
the smallest tasks were overwhelming. Her body had grown so
thin, her léine hung upon her, and she could see the thin
bones of her knees and wrists.

But she wasn’t ready to give up. Like all of them, she was
fighting to live.