34. Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter thirty-four
Just after the morning light, an arrow struck the outer gate, quivering in the wet wood. The boy nearest it stumbled back and crossed himself. Seamus tore the arrow free and brought it to Aingeal without waiting to be summoned.
A parchment note had been wrapped in oilcloth and bound to the arrow with red thread.
Aingeal opened it at the council table.
No one spoke while she read.
Brennach stood behind her chair. Tomas waited with his tablets ready. Father Cillian watched the door as if threats might be tempted to enter properly if ignored. Reginald remained near the wall, neither seated with the council nor placed outside it.
Aingeal read the message once and then again. Her mouth hardened.
Tomas said, “My lady?”
She laid the parchment flat on the table.
“Mael Ruadh offers to spare the remaining outer holdings if I remove FitzUrse from the castle by sunset.”
Seamus gave a sound of dark satisfaction. “Then he has saved us debate.”
Aingeal looked at him.
He did not retreat. “Send FitzUrse away, strengthen the gate, and take the excuse from their mouths.”
Reginald said nothing.
That silence angered Aingeal more than argument would have. She did not want his surrender now. Not after the fire. Not after Donal’s grave. Not while every enemy outside her walls had begun deciding whether her wounds could be used as doors.
Brennach lifted the parchment. “There is more.” His eyes narrowed as he read. “If FitzUrse remains, Mael Ruadh names this house shelterer of a cursed man and calls on every Christian lord within riding distance to reject your rule.”
Father Cillian’s expression darkened. “Convenient piety from men who burn barns with children inside them.”
“Piety is often most useful to men who need a clean cloak for dirty work,” Tomas said.
Brennach crossed his arms. “He is not demanding FitzUrse because of Becket. He is demanding him because FitzUrse beat him yesterday.”
Seamus grunted. “And because his presence here hands Mael Ruadh a weapon.”
“Yes,” Brennach said. “So ask yourself why he wants that weapon removed from our hands.”
The room went still.
Aingeal looked at Reginald.
He had not moved. The arrow’s message might have been a sentence read over another man. Only his eyes had sharpened, fixed now on the map spread across the table.
“What do you see?” she asked.
At once, every face turned toward him.
Reginald came forward only when she gave the smallest nod. He did not touch the map until Tomas shifted aside and made room. He pointed to the western holdings. “The offer is not meant to be accepted.”
Seamus barked a humorless laugh. “Then why make it?”
“To divide the room.” Reginald’s finger moved to the north ridge. “If you cast me out, you lose my eye and prove the scandal can command you. If you keep me, Mael Ruadh has his excuse to gather men beneath a holy grievance.”
Aingeal felt the cold clarity of it.
Tomas whispered, “Either choice feeds him.”
“Unless we make a third,” Aingeal said.
Reginald looked at her then, and something passed between them.
“We send answer?” Brennach asked.
“Yes,” Aingeal said. “Not apology. Not defense.”
Father Cillian leaned forward. “Then what?”
Aingeal rested both hands on the table. “Invitation.”
Seamus stared. “To Mael Ruadh?”
“To every man he hopes to sway.” Her voice steadied as the shape of it formed. “At noon tomorrow, I will hear his grievance before witnesses. Let him come beneath safe conduct with two men only and let the neighboring landholders come hear whether this is zeal for God or hunger for my borders.”
Tomas’s brows lifted. “You would draw them here?”
“I would draw them into daylight.”
Reginald’s gaze stayed on the map. “He may refuse.”
“Then he looks afraid to speak openly.”
“He may accept and use the hall against you.”
“Then he enters my hall.”
That drew the faintest movement at the corner of Brennach’s mouth.
Seamus did not smile. “And while we polish words for guests, he moves men through the marsh.”
“Yes,” Reginald said.
The agreement made Seamus turn sharply.
Reginald pointed to the eastern causeway. “The parley is smoke. The real strike comes while the lords gather, or while the castle’s attention turns inward. He will expect you to keep your strength at the gate for show.”
“So what do we do?” Tomas asked.
This time Reginald looked not to Aingeal, but to Seamus. “You take the best men out before dawn and hide them beyond the marsh road.”
Seamus’s eyes narrowed. “You want me out of the castle while Mael Ruadh walks into her hall?”
“No. I want him to believe I am all that stands between him and the gate.” Reginald continued, “He hates what I am. He hates more that I beat him. He will strike where he thinks pride sits. Let him think pride is me.”
Aingeal understood. “You would make yourself bait.”
“I already am.”
Seamus shook his head. “I dislike plans where he is correct.”
“So do I,” Aingeal agreed.
Reginald looked at her. “You do not have to trust me to use me.”
That hurt because once she would have taken it as shield or challenge. Now she heard only the truth beneath it. He was offering his usefulness stripped of claim. Aingeal turned to Seamus. “Can you hold men concealed beyond the marsh road?”
“I can.”
“Will you?”
His jaw flexed. He looked at Reginald, then back at her. “For you, yes.”
“For the castle,” she said.
“For the castle,” he answered.
Tomas bent over his tablet. “And if Mael Ruadh refuses parley?”
“Then we still move men before dawn,” Aingeal said. “And we send word to the holdings that anyone tempted by his claim may come here and hear Father Cillian answer it.”
The priest nodded once. “Gladly.”
Seamus’s eyes gleamed. “Let me write the invitation.”
“No,” Aingeal said at once.
Seamus looked offended.
“You may write the part that makes him angry,” Aingeal amended.
“I accept.”
For the first time in days, a brief sound moved through the room that was nearly laughter.
They spent the next hour over maps and messages. Seamus argued with Reginald over the marsh road until both men were nearly snarling, and then, to Aingeal’s surprise, Seamus stabbed one finger into the map and said, “Fine. There. That hollow will hide six horses if the reeds are high enough.”
Reginald studied the mark. “Eight if the men dismount.”
“Do not improve my ambush.”
“I would not dare.”
Aingeal did not like using Reginald as bait. She felt uneasy and worried putting his life in danger. But she knew she must.
By sunset, the invitations had gone out.
By midnight, Seamus had chosen his men.
Before dawn, Reginald stood in the yard beneath a low sky, tightening the girth on a horse he would not ride far.
Aingeal came to him alone.
The yard was quiet enough that every sound carried. Leather drawn tight. A horse’s breath. The soft step of her boots over damp straw.
“You are making yourself the thing he strikes at,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You might die for a castle that has not forgiven you.”
“I might.”
“For a woman who has not forgiven you.”
His hand stilled on the strap. Then he looked at her. “Yes.”
Aingeal’s heart twisted, and she stepped closer. “Do not do this because you think death will cleanse you.”
A flicker crossed his face.
She had found something true. “Do not,” she said again, lower now. “I will not have you turn repentance into another way of fleeing.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then his voice came rough. “What would you have me do?”
“Live through the day,” she said, almost a plea.
The words hung between them.
For the first time, he looked almost shaken by hope. “As you command,” he said.
She turned before tenderness could undo her and crossed back toward the hall while the first gray of morning opened over the ridge.