The Thrall Queen
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 7: The Truth
The Irish coast appeared through morning mist like a memory half-forgotten. Sweyn stood at the prow of his longship, watching the green hills emerge from gray, and thought of copper-red hair and eyes like storm-touched seas.
Two weeks. He’d promised Saoirse two weeks.
If he was wrong about her—if she truly was just an orphan the monks had charitably educated—then he’d wasted valuable time and returned empty-handed. His father’s negotiations with the German duke would continue. The marriage would proceed. And Saoirse would become ... what? His mistress? His secret? A woman he loved but could never truly claim?
No. He wouldn’t accept that.
There had to be another way. And that way started here, in Ireland, at the monastery where she’d spent sixteen years.
“My lord.” His second-in-command, Ragnar, moved to stand beside him. “The men are ready. Do you want them armed?”
“No. We’re not raiding.” Sweyn kept his eyes on the approaching shore. “We’re visiting a monastery. Asking questions.”
“Monks don’t usually answer questions from Vikings.”
“They will answer mine.” Sweyn’s hand rested on his sword hilt. “One way or another.”
The monastery was smaller than he’d expected—a cluster of stone buildings surrounded by a low wall, with fields and gardens stretching toward the forest. Peaceful. Isolated. The perfect place to hide something valuable.
Or someone.
They anchored offshore and took a smaller boat to the beach. Twenty warriors—enough to be intimidating, not so many as to be an invasion. Sweyn wanted information, not bloodshed.
Though he’d shed blood if necessary.
The monks saw them coming—of course they did. By the time Sweyn and his men reached the monastery gates, a small group waited: an elderly man in simple robes, flanked by a half-dozen younger monks, all looking terrified.
The elderly man stepped forward, his Latin clear and formal: “I am Abbot Finian. You come armed to a house of God. State your purpose, or leave in peace.”
Sweyn answered in his broken Irish, knowing it would surprise them: “I come for information. About girl who was here. Sixteen years. Copper hair. Taken by raiders last year.”
The Abbot’s face went carefully blank. “Many have been taken by raiders over the years.”
“This one was special.” Sweyn moved closer, noting how the younger monks tensed, ready to protect their Abbot despite having no weapons. “You raised her. Educated her. Taught her Latin, Greek, languages that monks do not teach to orphan girls.”
“We teach all the children in our care—”
“You teach boys who will be priests. Girls go to convents. But this girl stayed here. With you. For sixteen years.” Sweyn’s eyes bored into the Abbot’s. “Why?”
“I do not know who you speak of.”
“Her name is Saoirse.” Sweyn pronounced it carefully, the way she’d taught him. “She has eyes like the sea and speaks like scholar. She is clever and brave and—” He stopped himself. “She is mine now. My ... woman. And I need to know who she really is.”
Something flickered in the Abbot’s expression. “If you have her, why do you care who she was?”
“Because I want to marry her.” The words came out harsh, almost angry. “But I am prince. She is slave. This is impossible. Unless...” He gestured at the monastery. “Unless she is not just slave. Unless she is someone important. Someone worth hiding for sixteen years.”
The Abbot was quiet for a long moment. Then, in careful Irish: “If I tell you, what do you intend to do with this information?”
“Make her my wife. My queen, when I take throne from my father.”
“You speak treason.”
“I speak truth.” Sweyn’s hand tightened on his sword. “Now you speak truth, old man. Who is she?”
The Abbot looked at the warriors surrounding him, at the weapons they carried, at Sweyn’s implacable expression. He was calculating odds, Sweyn realized. Wondering if truth or silence would keep his monks safer.
“She is...” The Abbot’s voice caught. “She is well? You have not harmed her?”
The question was so unexpected, so full of genuine concern, that Sweyn’s anger faltered. “She is well. She is...” How to explain? “She is valued. Protected. I have not harmed her.”
“She refused you.” It wasn’t a question. The Abbot’s eyes were sharp despite his age. “She would have refused, even knowing the cost. That is how we raised her.”
“Yes. She refused.” Sweyn felt an odd smile touch his lips. “She chose to freeze on balcony rather than submit to me. Very stubborn. Very brave.”
“That is Saoirse.” The Abbot’s expression softened slightly. Then hardened again. “If you harm her—if you take what she does not freely give—I will curse you before God himself.”
“I do not take.” Sweyn met the old man’s eyes. “I have waited five months for her to choose me. I will wait longer if needed. But I want to marry her. Legally. With full rights as my wife.” He paused. “Who is she?”
The Abbot studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned toward the monastery. “Follow me. Leave your men outside.”
Ragnar stepped forward. “My lord—”
“Wait here.” Sweyn followed the Abbot through the gates. “I will be safe.”
The Abbot led him through the small compound to the main building, then down a narrow corridor to a locked room. He produced a key from his robes and opened a heavy wooden door.
Inside was a vault—stone walls, no windows, shelves lined with precious items. Reliquaries, jeweled crosses, illuminated manuscripts. The monastery’s treasures, hidden away from raiders.
And in the center, on a small wooden table, sat a carved box.
Sweyn recognized the workmanship—Irish, noble quality, old. The Abbot lifted it reverently and set it on the table between them.
“Sixteen years ago,” the Abbot said quietly, “a king came to our gates at dawn. He carried his infant daughter and begged us to hide her. His family had been destroyed—his wife, his sons, his hall burned. Only the child remained, and his enemies hunted her.”
Sweyn’s pulse quickened. “What king?”
“King Tuathal of Leinster. The last of the Uí Dúnlainge dynasty.” The Abbot opened the box. Inside lay a gold ring set with a green stone, a wax seal, and a folded parchment. “He gave us these—proof of her lineage. He said to tell her when she was old enough, when it was safe.” The old man’s voice broke. “But it was never safe. And then the raiders came, and we lost her before we could tell her the truth.”
Sweyn picked up the ring carefully. Heavy gold, finely worked, clearly royal. The seal bore the arms of Leinster—he recognized them from his study of Irish politics.
“She does not know?” he asked. “She truly does not know who she is?”
“We told her she was an orphan we took in. It was safer that way. If she knew she was Princess Saoirse of Leinster, last heir to the throne...” The Abbot gestured helplessly. “She was six months old. She has no memory of her parents, her life before. We are the only family she has ever known.”
“Had.” Sweyn’s voice was hard. “You are all she had. Now she is in Denmark, serving in palace, thinking she is nobody.”
“Is she safe?” The Abbot gripped Sweyn’s arm. “Tell me true. Is she safe with you?”
Sweyn thought of Saoirse curled against him at night, her cold feet under his calves, her hand over his on her breast. Of her brilliant mind analyzing letters, her stubborn courage, her refusal to be broken even when she had every reason to break.
“She is safe,” he said quietly. “She is loved. And she will be queen.”
The Abbot’s shoulders sagged with relief. Then he straightened. “You must tell her gently. This will ... it will shatter everything she believes about herself.”
“I know.” Sweyn looked at the items in the box. “I will need these. All of it. For proof.”
“Proof for whom?”
“My father. His court. The jarls who will question why I marry Irish slave.” Sweyn carefully replaced the items in the box and closed it. “With these, she is not slave. She is Princess of Leinster. Alliance with her is politically valuable.”
“You would use her heritage as political tool?”
“I would use everything necessary to make her my wife.” Sweyn met the Abbot’s eyes. “You kept her safe for sixteen years. Now it is my turn. And I will use every weapon I have—including her blood—to protect her.”
The Abbot was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. “She chose well, I think. Or you chose well. Either way...” He placed his hand on the box. “Tell her we loved her. Tell her Brother Declan died trying to protect her when the raiders came. Tell her...” His voice broke. “Tell her she was never just an orphan we took in. She was precious to us. A princess in truth, but also a daughter of this house.”
“I will tell her.” Sweyn picked up the box. “Thank you, Abbot.”
“Do not thank me.” The old man’s eyes were wet. “I failed her. I kept her safe but never told her the truth. And then I lost her anyway.” He gripped Sweyn’s arm again. “Do not fail her as I did. Give her the truth. Give her choices. Give her the life she was meant to have.”
“I will.” Sweyn tucked the box under his arm. “She will be queen. I swear it.”
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