Chapter Seventeen

“F lanna, run and fetch Mistress MacCormac.”

Liadan gave the order in a hushed voice, unwilling to wake either of her patients. Two of them now, for her to tend. And what misdeed might she have committed to earn this? Bad enough looking after Mam, whom she loved, without being lumbered with the serpent.

He was not a serpent, though. At least, not at the moment.

He’d been led home by a fellow warrior who would not shut up about the battle—the last thing Liadan wanted to hear—and who told her he’d been seen by a healer in the field and then by another here when they reached home.

Liadan scarcely listened to the man. She could see that Ardahl MacCormac barely kept his feet, and that by sheer determination.

She’d put him in her own bed, there being nowhere else. He’d fallen into an almost immediate sleep, and she’d fretted.

What if he died? His injuries looked grave enough. And she didn’t like the expression in his eyes. Half dazed. Half burned to the very spirit.

At first she begged Flanna to stay with her, for she did not want to be alone with these two. But Flanna went outside to vomit, then went and sat beside Mam as if she, no more than Liadan, could bear to be near Ardahl.

Why must I stay and care for him? Liadan wondered as she tended the fire, as she fussed over bandages and salves, as she made sure Ardahl was still alive.

His wounds were extensive, as she could clearly see. No doubt he had lost much blood. But, as she told herself repeatedly, he was a strong man in the prime of his life. So long as none of the wounds took poisoning, he would recover.

For now, exhaustion claimed him. He breathed deep, and naught she did or said roused him. Not until the middle of the night, when she drowsed by the fire, did he part his lips in a plaintive moan.

“Mam. Mam?”

It raised the hairs all over Liadan’s body, coming out of the silence that way. When she checked on him, she found him still senseless. Calling for his mother in his sleep.

Hardhearted she might be, at least when it came to this man. Or she might not. Either way, she could not withstand such a plea.

Were there any strictures against her inviting his mother here to help care for him? She did not know.

She would not ask.

When Flanna woke at first light, she bade her go to fetch Maeve.

“I will no’. I do no’ like to. Lasair says Ardahl no longer belongs to her.” Flanna wrinkled her nose. “He is ours now.”

“The woman will want to see him, sore hurt as he is. She will be going out of her mind wi’ worry. Think if it were Conall.”

“He is no’ Conall. He killed Conall.”

“Just go.”

Flanna went out. Whether she would obey or run back away to her friend, Liadan could not say.

Time passed. A scuttle came at the doorpost.

Maeve stood there, her shawl held up over her hair, face drawn. Her eyes searched Liadan’s face piteously.

“He is here? How bad is he?”

“’Tis hard to tell.” Liadan hesitated. “He called for ye. In his sleep.”

Maeve clasped Liadan’s wrist. “’Tis kind of ye to bring me.”

“No kindness. I ha’ my mam to care for. If ye tend him—”

“Aye, to be sure.”

Maeve went away into Liadan’s sleeping place. She had brought a basket of bandages, and began at once speaking to her son. Crooning to him. “I am here, lamb. Rest easy now.”

Lamb? If Liadan could believe the little bit she’d absorbed of Cullan’s blather, the man had turned the battle single-handed.

But, ah, did she care what his mother said to him? With Maeve here, the burden was lifted from her own shoulders.

Mam surfaced from the doze, focused on Liadan, and asked where she was. She seemed so much more clearheaded that hope stirred in Liadan’s heart. If Mam recovered, she would not be alone in this misery.

Soon Mam fell into what seemed a restful sleep. Not long after, Liadan heard the rumble of a male voice next door. She went and hovered at the doorway. Aye, Ardahl had come awake. He half sat up, his mam bent over him. Both of them turned eyes identical in color toward Liadan.

“Ah, ye be better.” Not waiting for an answer from Ardahl, Liadan hurried on, “Mistress MacCormac, is there aught ye need?”

“Nay. I ha’ all I need.”

Liadan quickly moved away and set about preparing a meal. Maeve would want to eat. So, presumably, would the recovering warrior.

When the aran sat browned on the stone beside the fire, she called Maeve.

“Will ye take your son something to eat? There is broth and bread.”

“Thank ye.”

“How is he?” Liadan did not want to ask. Then again, she wanted to know.

Maeve pushed tumbled hair away from a face white with strain. “My son is strong. If none o’ the wounds take poisoning, he will recover.”

Just as she had thought. Was it good news, or bad? Not able to decide, Liadan just nodded.

“Thank you for sending for me. I needed to see him.”

“Aye.”

“I should go soon.”

“Nay, do not.” Liadan did not wish to be alone with her two patients.

“I do not know if I am allowed to be here.”

“I allow it. With Mam ailing, I am in charge.” For better, for worse.

Maeve glanced into Conall’s sleeping place, where Mam lay. “What ails your mother?”

“Grief. I can restore your son to ye. I cannot bring hers back to her.”

*

Ardahl dreamed of Conall, the aftermath of one of the battles they’d fought together out on the border. Conall’s spirits always rose sky high following a fight—because they’d triumphed, a fearless team, as he liked to say. He’d brag a little while they sat with their mugs of ale after having their wounds tended, but only to Ardahl. He was not a man to talk himself up in the warriors’ hall.

In this dream, though, Conall turned to Ardahl, fixed him with a knowing blue eye, and said, “I need to tell you something.”

It felt so good sitting with him once more that way, so at ease bumping shoulders companionably as they so often had, that Ardahl nearly did not want to listen.

“’Tis important,” Conall insisted.

“Tell me, then.”

“Cathair—”

He awoke abruptly and lay stinging in half a score of places. He told himself to disregard the pain. He’d been injured before. Both he and Conall had.

But he had not Conall to lean upon now. To encourage him. To laugh with about their daring, and their hurts.

He wanted to go back into the dream. To say, “I would never in a thousand lives have believed ye would turn on me in anger. Why?”

His mother’s face swam into place above him. “Mam? Ye, here? How?”

“Mistress Liadan sent for me. A kindness.”

Liadan . A vision of her danced in his mind. Honey-gold hair. Wary blue eyes.

As if he’d summoned her, she appeared at the opening in the sleeping place. Her sleeping place, as he realized.

“Is all well? Shall I call the healer?”

Mam looked at him. “D’ye want the healer?”

“By all the gods, no.” The last thing he wanted was another person poking and prodding at him. “They will be needed elsewhere.”

Mistress Liadan disappeared from view.

Mam took Ardahl’s hand. “Ye must eat. Grow stronger. They are saying out there”—she jerked her head toward the outer door—“ye be a hero.”

His lips twisted. “ They are—the same who hate and despise me?”

She leaned close. “Ye will show them of what ye be made. Ye must grow strong so ye can show them.”

Madness. Even his own mam took part in it.

“I must get up.”

“Son, nay.”

“I need to relieve myself.”

“I will fetch the pot.”

“Mam, no.”

It astonished him, when he fought his way upright, just how weak he felt. Dizzy in the head. No man—no warrior, whatever his disgrace—should be reduced so low.

No man of his years should have to relieve himself into an accursed pot.

Yet the midden sat at a distance. Could he make it there on his own?

“Come.” His mam supporting him, they went out into the air. Dark had fallen and the breeze felt kind against his cheek. The night made a fine cover as they went.

By the time they reached the place, he tottered. He went the last few steps on his own, knowing he would need to call on all his strength to make it back again.

Folk stared as he and Mam returned to Mistress Liadan’s hut. No one spoke; no one protested his mam’s presence at his side.

They parted at the door of the hut. Mam pulled his head down and kissed him on the face. “Ye have grown so tall from when I used to kiss ye. I scarce know ye. But och, I still love ye just the same.”

“Take care, Mam. Will I see ye tomorrow?”

“Aye. Och, aye.”

He watched her away through the dark till he could see her no more.

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