19. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter nineteen
The boy was trying very hard not to cry.
That was the first thing Aingeal noticed when she crossed the lower yard after morning council.
He stood near the edge of the training ground with a wooden sword broken cleanly in two, one half clenched in each fist. He could not have been more than seven. His hair stuck up in damp tufts, and his lower lip trembled with the fierce effort of keeping sorrow from becoming sound.
Donal noticed him too. He had been speaking with Seamus about the northern watch, but his gaze shifted to the boy, then to the broken sword, then to the older lads pretending not to see.
Aingeal followed as Donal crossed the yard.
“What happened?” he asked.
The boy drew himself up with grave dignity. “It broke.”
“So I see.”
“It was not my fault.”
“I did not say it was.”
“Liam said I struck like a goose.”
Aingeal pressed her lips together.
Donal looked toward the cluster of older boys by the fence. Every one of them suddenly found the mud near his boots fascinating.
“A goose can be dangerous,” Donal said.
The boy blinked.
Aingeal looked at Donal in surprise.
Donal’s expression remained perfectly solemn. “They have wings, speed, and vicious tempers. I have seen grown men retreat from geese.”
The boy stared for one stunned heartbeat. Then he laughed.
The sound burst from him so suddenly that something inside Aingeal loosened. The older boys laughed too, though carefully, as if unsure whether they had permission.
Donal crouched and held out his hand. “May I see it?”
The boy surrendered the broken sword.
Donal examined both halves with the same seriousness he might have given a battlefield relic. “Poor wood.”
“It was my favorite.”
“Favorite things are often loved past their strength.”
Aingeal heard the quiet beneath the words and looked at him.
He rose and glanced toward the woodpile near the smithy. “We can do better.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “You can make one?”
“No,” Donal said.
The boy’s face fell.
Donal handed him one half of the broken sword. “We can.”
Aingeal should have gone back inside. There were ledgers waiting. A complaint about grazing rights. A message from the western watch. A castle did not run because its lady spent the morning repairing toys. Instead, she said, “The ash wood will be too heavy for him.”
Donal turned to her. “Will it?”
“For a boy that size, yes. Hazel would suit better.”
The boy looked between them, hope returning. “Lady Aingeal knows swords?”
“She knows everything,” Donal said gravely.
“I do not.”
The boy considered this. “Most things?”
“Enough things,” she allowed.
Donal’s mouth curved.
Together they crossed to the woodpile with the boy trotting after them. Aingeal chose a length of hazel, straight enough and dry enough to hold. Donal tested its weight, then handed it to the boy.
“Too heavy?”
The boy swung it with both hands and nearly turned himself in a full circle.
Aingeal caught the back of his tunic before he toppled.
Donal’s brow rose. “A formidable beginning.”
The boy beamed.
“That one is too long,” Aingeal said. “Unless you mean him to defeat enemies in the next county.”
“Ambitious,” Donal said, “but impractical.”
The boy laughed again.
Donal found a shorter piece. Aingeal fetched a strip of worn leather from the saddler’s discard basket. Donal borrowed a knife from Seamus, who watched with the grim patience of a man pretending he had better things to do.
“You are spoiling him,” Seamus said.
“I am arming him,” Donal replied.
“With a stick.”
“Most armies begin with sticks.”
Aingeal glanced at Seamus. “You began with a stick.”
Seamus grunted. “And became a terror.”
“A warning to us all,” Donal said.
The boy giggled so hard he pressed both hands over his mouth.
Aingeal wrapped the leather around the grip while Donal shaved the edges smooth. Their hands worked near each other, not touching, not lingering. There was no charged silence because there was no silence at all. The boy asked questions without pause.
Had Donal ever broken a real sword?
Had Lady Aingeal ever stabbed anyone?
Could a goose defeat a knight?
Was Seamus older than the castle?
Seamus left at that point.
Aingeal laughed before she could stop herself. The sound surprised her. Not because she never laughed, but because this laugh came easily. No bitterness beneath it. No sharpness meant to keep the world at its proper distance.
Donal looked at her then with pleasure. As if her laughter had given him something.
“There,” she said, tying off the leather. “Try it now.”
The boy took the wooden sword as if receiving a king’s blade. He swung once, better this time. Donal adjusted his elbow. Aingeal corrected his feet.
“Not so wide,” she said. “You are not a gate.”
“And not so narrow,” Donal added. “You are not a fence post.”
The boy corrected himself with enormous concentration.
“Good,” Aingeal said.
The boy glowed.
Donal stepped back. “Now defend yourself from Liam.”
Across the yard, Liam paled. “Me?”
“You called him a goose,” Aingeal said. “Surely you do not fear poultry.”
The entire yard heard that. Unfortunately for Liam, the entire yard also laughed.
The two boys squared off with great seriousness. The smaller one lost twice, then won once, because Liam slipped in the mud. He crowed in triumph anyway, and Aingeal let him have it.
When the boys ran off, wooden sword raised high, Aingeal remained near the woodpile with Donal.
The yard had gone back to work around them. Steel rang. Horses stamped. Men shouted. Ordinary life resumed, but something in her felt different inside it.
Donal turned the broken sword half over in his hand. “He will outgrow the new one quickly.”
“Children do that.”
“So I am told.”
She studied him. “You have not been around many?”
“Not in places where they were allowed to remain children.” The words were quiet.
Aingeal looked toward the boys, now arguing over whether geese could be trained for war. “Then perhaps this place will be good for you.”
He was silent long enough that she wondered whether she had gone too far.
Then he said, “Perhaps.” The word held no promise. Only possibility.
Aingeal tossed the broken sword half onto the scrap pile. “A crisis resolved.”
“A grave military matter settled through joint command.”
“Do not sound surprised.”
“I am not.” His gaze moved to the boys, then back to her. “We work well together.”
Warmth rose in her face. She turned toward the hall before he could see too much of it. “Come, then. There are pigs invading a garden, and I expect your military expertise may be required.”
Donal fell into step beside her. “Are the pigs armed?”
“With entitlement.”
“Dangerous creatures.”
“The worst.”
As they crossed the yard together, Aingeal realized she was smiling. Not because she had forgotten the danger. Because, for a little while, it had not been the only thing between them.
By the fourth day after étaín’s arrival, Aingeal knew the danger was no longer only outside her walls.
The border still needed watching. The stores still needed counting.
Two western families still slept in the lower chambers by the bakehouse because they did not trust the roads enough to return home.
The granary roof held, but only because men checked the hide seam every few hours.
Tomas had spent most of the morning muttering over how long the saved barley might last if the weather turned cruel.
All of that should have filled her mind.
Instead, she found herself watching étaín observe Donal.
It was not jealousy alone, though jealousy still moved through her in sharp, shameful flashes. Not fear that étaín would charm Donal away with a smile or a soft laugh. Aingeal knew her cousin too well to believe she would set out to wound her.
What frightened Aingeal most was étaín’s attention. It had changed. Her cousin was still warm. Still bright. Still capable of making a room soften merely by stepping into it. But when she looked at Donal now, the brightness thinned. Something sharper moved beneath it.
Aingeal stood that afternoon in the shadow of the gallery stair and looked down into the lower yard with a stillness that, from a distance, might have passed for patience. Near the training ground, Donal stood with Seamus and two boys who were trying, and failing, to look older than they were.
étaín came down from the hall carrying a cup in one hand and a strip of bread in the other.
She crossed the yard without hurry, pausing once to smile at a maid and again to ask after an old shepherd’s cough.
By the time she reached the training ground, both boys had straightened, and even Seamus’s hard mouth had twitched.
She said something to Donal.
Aingeal could not hear the words.
Donal turned his head, listened, and answered. As always, he did not encourage her. He did not lean toward her the way men often did when étaín looked at them with bright, easy attention. He remained polite, grave, and attentive.
Nothing improper passed between them, and that should have comforted her. It did not. Because étaín was not merely speaking to him. She was measuring him.
Aingeal felt the knowledge settle cold beneath her ribs.
Maybe étaín saw something. Maybe étaín, with all that warmth others mistook for harmlessness, had begun to notice what Aingeal had refused to see clearly because wanting Donal had made her careless.
That was worse than jealousy. This was the fear that another woman was not stealing his attention but uncovering his truth.
Later, in the hall, étaín seemed to find him again without seeming to try.
Tomas had spread the winter maps over the long table near the fire.
Donal stood on one side, one hand braced on the wood, speaking quietly with Brennach about the western ridge.
étaín came to look, drawn by interest rather than design, and Tomas shifted aside to make room because everyone shifted for étaín if she smiled and asked kindly.
Aingeal, across the room speaking with Father Cillian, saw it all.