Chapter Twenty
A man, as Ardahl well knew, could sometimes become so weary he grew numb and stupid with it. If he kept pushing through, he came right out the other side. He had been here in the past. After a hard battle, he and Conall had joked about it, turned silly with it. Laughed.
He could not imagine laughing now. His body screamed at him, each movement a protest. Every part of him demanded relief. He had driven his muscles and his nerves beyond endurance. He saw no rest in sight.
The settlement lay in shambles, and Chief Fearghal had done little more than promise them further battles. As if that was what his people needed now. They needed comfort and reassurance, the impossible hope that all would come right.
But for folk such as theirs, the promise of vengeance could be a comfort. Vengeance for the dead. Fearghal knew that. On some level, so did Ardahl.
The thought of further battles provided a blow to his heart. They did not yet know who had survived this one. He’d seen some of his fellow warriors—including Cathair—but a number were so far missing.
Did they lie dead like Conall?
The dead would need burying. The settlement guarding. Homes rebuilt.
He felt tired enough to die.
He turned to his mother. “Will ye go to stay wi’ Mistress MacAert?”
“Not there. She hates me, with good reason.”
“Without reason.”
“Even so.”
“Then where will ye go?” He could not spare the worry for her, with so much else gone wrong.
Mam said nothing.
“Will any o’ your friends take ye in?”
“They have turned against me.”
Ardahl cursed all of them under his breath.
Dornach appeared. The war chief looked a mess, covered in soot and filthy wounds. But he had survived, which seemed a minor miracle.
He eyed Ardahl gravely. “Ye need your wounds tended. Ye should no’ be on your feet.”
“I am well enough.”
“Liar! Mistress, see your son is tended.”
Desperate, Ardahl said, “I must return to my post at Mistress MacAert’s hut. Master Dornach, my mother refuses to go there with me.”
The big man turned to the woman. “Mistress, my good wife and I would be pleased to house ye, for the time.”
“Will ye?” Relief poured through Ardahl.
“To be sure. Our hut did no’ burn, and save for the smoke, we are whole. We have the room. My wife is taking others in.”
“I would be most grateful,” Ardahl said.
“And ye”—Dornach eyed Ardahl again—“get back to Mistress MacAert, if ye will but first get ye to the healers and have them tend ye.”
Ah, but if he went straight to Mistress MacAert’s, might he not get care there? Mistress Liadan’s hands upon him as before. The thought sent him dizzy in the head.
“I will be available for guard duty or patrol—”
Dornach touched his arm. “Ye will no’, for the time. My orders. Mistress MacCormac, if ye will come along o’ me…”
Kindness, Ardahl thought as Dornach led Mam away. Who would have thought it of the gruff war chief?
He met a number of blank stares as he walked back through the settlement. Women wept. Children were silent. Warriors stood in hard knots, talking fiercely.
Of revenge, no doubt.
Someone ran past him, crying out to all who would listen, “Aodh is dead! The high priest is slain!”
Was it so? A staggering loss.
He approached Conall’s hut and stood for a moment, unwilling to enter. The door, pinned open to admit the air, emitted not a sound.
Were the women in?
Aye, so he discovered when he ducked his head and entered. He left his weapons beside the door and took a moment to absorb the scene.
Mistress MacAert, well awake, sat beside the hearth place, the expression on her face as blank as if she still slept. Her eyes found him and he expected some reaction, an outcry. But she made none.
Flanna, who sat beside her, had been weeping. Liadan bustled around, trying to keep her hands and thoughts busy, he did not doubt.
She whirled and looked at him. “Och, Ardahl. Ye should no’ be on your feet.”
“That is what Dornach said.” Yet he was on his feet, if barely.
“Sit ye down.”
When he stood where he was, unwilling to intrude, she came to him, clutched his arm, and pushed him down with ridiculous ease.
“I just heard Aodh is dead.”
All three of them looked at him. Flanna and Liadan with horror, Mistress MacAert still blankly.
“Nay,” Liadan breathed.
“Would not the gods protect him?” Flanna wondered. “Such a holy man.”
Ardahl pressed his lips together so he would not say what burned behind them. That he’d heard more prayers for protection on the brink of a battle than upon any holy day, and they seldom meant aught. That the gods rarely stirred to protect those who deserved it.
Like his da. And Conall.
“Whisht now,” Liadan said. “’Tis not our place to question the acts o’ the gods.” She looked at Ardahl. “How did he die?”
“I do not know—I merely heard his death cried out.”
“Aye, well, ’tis a dire loss, but we will ha’ to go on without him. Just like all the rest who lost their lives this day.”
“How many?” Flanna asked with tears in her eyes. “How many have died?”
“Impossible to say before the bodies are gathered,” Ardahl told her.
“But,” she appealed to him, “it is over, is it not? We will no’ be attacked again.”
Should he lie to these three women who watched him so fearfully? What good would any lie do?
“Dacha has taken back his brother whom we held prisoner. He may be satisfied wi’ that. Or he may decide to strike again while he believes we are weak.” He hesitated. “Finish wi’ it.”
“Finish us, ye mean? Och.” Liadan comprehended the threat if her sister did not, if her mother stared uncomprehendingly. They balanced on a knife’s edge of danger.
She shook her head and said no more, then hurried to pull together a meal, which they shared without further discussion.
Afterward, Flanna sat with her head on her mother’s shoulder. Quietly, Liadan came to Ardahl and said, “D’ye think they will attack tonight? While—while all remains in confusion?”
He looked at her from beneath his lashes. He didn’t like to admit that was what he would do, were he Dacha. Strike while the iron was hot. Deliver the killing blow. Then walk in and take the territory he’d been chasing so long. Kill whomever he chose. Chase the others off or make slaves of them.
“Do no’ worry,” he told Liadan. “I will be here. In Conall’s place. I shall sleep beside the door wi’ his sword. None shall touch nor harm ye.”
Her gaze held his. “Even should it cost your life?”
“Even so.”
“Come, then. Let me tend your wounds, that ye will be fit for the task.”
It proved a lengthy process, and not without hurt, though she made her hands as gentle as she could. First she brought a basin and washed him down, which felt…almost unimaginably pleasurable. But nay, pleasurable was not the proper word. For despite his bone-deep weariness, her act of wiping away the soot and the blood, stroking the cloth over his arms and down his chest, aroused him.
He turned his face away. Conall’s sister. His sister, now, by the order of the druids. He could not possibly desire her.
But she was a grown woman, and a beautiful one.
She despised him. Thought the very worst of him.
Yet that did not tell in her touch. Indeed, it must be his maddened imagination that made it seem she touched him with something other than hate.
By the time she finished, both her mother and sister slept there beside the fire. Liadan went and gently roused them, sent them off to their beds. When she came back, she brought Ardahl a blanket.
He looked up at her, questioning the action.
“At least ye will no’ be cold,” she explained.
Another kindness. He barely dared breathe for his surprise. Even more so when she sat down beside him, leaning her back against the outer wall next to his.
“Mistress, ye will be better off in your bed.”
“I cannot possibly sleep, waiting for another attack.”
So she meant to sit here with him? Keep him company as a friend might?
“It is quiet out there.”
It was, save for a few calls between the guards at a distance. Dornach would have a heavy presence around the settlement this night. One of which he should be a part.
But nay. His place was here. Defending Liadan.
“I am worried for my mam,” she whispered.
“She no longer weeps.”
“Nay. But such a sudden change—”
“Perhaps the fright shook her.”
“I do no’ doubt that. But there is an emptiness. One I do no’ like.”
Not only did she keep him company, she confided in him. What had altered between them?
“Try no’ to worry for it now,” he bade her. “Let us merely get through the night.”
“Aye.” She stirred and moved just a little closer. For warmth, he told himself. “Aye.”
They fell silent, listening hard to the night.