Chapter Twenty-Three
I t made a difference, feeling that Conall’s sister believed in him. That she accepted he’d meant no harm to her brother. That she did not, perhaps, hate him.
She, among all women.
He went out to practice or to other work about the settlement with a lighter heart. It did not sting so much when others slighted him or he heard the grumbles and the whispers. Some among the warriors did not believe he belonged in their ranks, let alone at the foremost of them. When they gathered and especially when they drank, they became vocal about it.
Now, he began to notice most of them were close cronies of Cathair’s.
Cathair himself did not say much to Ardahl, but his hard glances relayed all that needed to be said. That, and the way he came at Ardahl when they faced one another in practice, with no regard for past injuries and no mercy.
Dornach did his best at such times to keep them separated and to keep them focused on the true enemy.
Dacha. Though they waited day by day for it, and night by night, he had not attacked again. Ardahl almost wished he would. Waiting for the blow to fall was agony.
But each day made him stronger. And he did have one or two who would speak to him—Muirin, who remained friendly, and Cullan, who had been assigned the permanent place as his charioteer.
Conall’s place.
He noticed now when Liadan came by the training field to stand among the other women. Noticed for a number of reasons. The way the sun caught her hair. The way she moved, and her smile. He saw her approach Brasha several times and speak to her in a quiet fashion, and ached to know what was said.
Always, he looked away quickly. Many an association had been made here at the training field. Indeed, Brasha had begun paying attention to Conall here, and their relationship had followed.
Whatever that relationship may have been.
Now in her coy fashion, Brasha followed no one but Cathair, and he strutted all the more when her eyes rested upon him.
One day after practice, Dornach came to Ardahl and placed a hand on his shoulder. In a low voice he said, “I want ye to know, we will be going into battle soon.”
Ardahl’s gaze flew to him. “Eh?”
“Aye. Do no’ spread that around, lad. The chief has been meeting wi’ mysel’ and his other advisors, including the druids. No one wants to sit and wait for another attack.”
“Nay.”
“Dacha haunts the border we share wi’ Brihan. Fearghal would like to chase him awa’ out o’ there while the season affords, and then try for a binding treaty wi’ Brihan, which would give us time to rebuild.”
Why was Dornach telling Ardahl all this? Privileged information.
“Ye will no’ speak o’ that to anyone, aye?”
“Aye, master.”
“I want to know if ye will be ready to fight when we roll out.”
“Aye, so, master. For certain.”
Dornach’s canny gaze moved over him. “Those hurts are not quite healed.”
“Well enough. I am nearly in top form.”
“I can see that, aye, but would no’ wish to undo the good ye have gained.” Emotions flickered in Dornach’s eyes. “I wanted ye to know, I would like to send ye out at the head o’ the men, Ardahl. Ye have earned it, in my estimation. But ’twill have to be Cathair this time.”
“I understand.”
“There is still much talk against ye.”
“I have heard it.”
Dornach’s lips twisted. “Much o’ it coming from Cathair himself. No one will yet countenance yourself at the head o’ the men.”
“It does no’ matter, Master Dornach.”
“I believe it does. There is such a thing as justice.”
“No’ for me.”
Dornach grunted. “Are ye content wi’ Cullan for a partner?”
Content was not the proper word. Ardahl ached for Conall back at his side.
Dornach added, “He is eager for the place.”
“Is he?” And should Ardahl expect treachery there also? Would he have to keep a watch, with Cullan beside him, for a knife in the ribs?
Or in the heart.
“Aye, so. Ye will have a care, lad. Keep clear o’ Cathair as much as ye can.”
Ardahl thought about Dornach’s words as he walked home, relived for the hundredth time that last scene between him and Conall, when his best friend would have taken his life.
He entered the hut to find all in confusion. Flanna pestered her sister, since she would no longer approach her mother with her wants. Mistress MacAert sat beside the hearth, silent as always, and Liadan bustled about trying to prepare a meal.
He wanted to duck out again. In fact, he did, leaving his weapons and going around the side of the hut to wash.
Liadan found him there not long after. He had his hair wet and his head in the basin when she joined him, and when he straightened, he caught a look in her eyes.
A look no man could mistake, however oblivious.
Well, well! He found himself attracted to her also, however inappropriate that might be. But the way she seemed to notice him while pretending not to only proved Conall’s sister was no longer a child.
“Mistress, what is it?”
Her gaze flicked over his shoulders, his damp, bare chest, and away.
“Flanna has begged a night with Lasair and Mam—well, ye ken fine how Mam is. Come have your supper. I have somewhat to tell ye.”
“Very well, so. Just let me finish here.”
She did not walk away as she should, but stood with her hands wrapped in her smock, watching as he dried off. Not till then did she turn, and he followed her inside.
Flanna was on her way out, and he pressed against the wall to allow her room. The lass had now come mostly to ignore him like part of the furnishings.
When he turned to the fire, though, he found Mistress MacAert gazing vacantly at him. Something in that stare sent a chill down his spine, and he as swiftly turned away again.
Even if Liadan began to accept him, he feared her mother did not. Would never.
He would have taken his customary place by the door, but Liadan waved him forward. The three of them sat, Liadan between Ardahl and her mother, and she spoke mostly to her mam, urging her to eat though the woman did no more than pick at her portion with skeletal fingers.
She dwindled away to naught, did Conall’s mam, and that caused a pain in Ardahl’s heart.
After they finished the meal, Liadan helped her mam away to her sleeping place before returning, bustling around briefly and settling on the rug beside Ardahl.
Leaning close, she asked, “What news from the training field this day? Any signs of possible attack?”
He could not tell her that with which Dornach had entrusted him, so he shook his head.
She refilled his cup with heather ale.
“I ha’ some word for ye. I ha’ been feeling my way around the settlement, talking—well, let me admit, gossiping as the others tend to do, finding out about Brasha.”
He searched her face. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “And, Liadan, d’ye no’ usually, like the others, gossip?”
She shook her head and wrinkled her nose. “Nay. I despise such chatter. I am making an exception for the sake o’ truth.”
A rare woman, indeed.
“One can discover much through gossip. And the folk of this tribe do love to speak o’ one another. Above all things, I think. Of course, one must then decide what, of all that’s heard, is true.”
“What ha’ ye determined?”
“Much. Some of it”—she hesitated—“painful. Some o’ it, to be honest, hurts my heart. I have a good friend, Soni, whose sister is close wi’ Brasha. She told me Brasha was seeing Cathair before ever she took up wi’ Conall last year.”
That, in itself, was not surprising. The young folk of the tribe, living in essence within a closed society, tended to make and form relationships many times before settling and handfasting. And Brasha, being quite beautiful even if she did have a waspish tongue, was much sought after.
Conall had scarce believed his luck when she turned her attention to him. Even though Conall, like all his family, had been well favored.
Liadan leaned still closer. Her blue eyes, so like Conall’s, sought Ardahl’s. “She has apparently returned to seeing Cathair now.”
Ardahl remembered Brasha running forward to touch Cathair’s hand when they’d headed out to the battle on the border. “Aye, so.” It made him uncomfortable then; it did still.
“The true heart o’ the gossip, though, is that Brasha was still seeing Cathair while she was wi’ my brother.”
“Are ye certain o’ that?”
“As certain as I can be wi’ gossip. No one wanted to talk about it. ’Tis one of those ugly things that are shoved into the shadows. Conall was well liked. And no one wishes to get on the wrong side o’ Brasha.”
Slow anger stirred in Ardahl’s heart, ramping up the doubt and rage already there. Conall had been happy with Brasha. At least, he had until shortly before his death, when something had changed.
“She was cuckolding him? All the while?”
Liadan shook her head. “Or cheating on Cathair. ’Tis difficult to know how to view it.”
Ardahl said nothing, letting his anger burn.
“Whatever the case,” Liadan whispered, “you will admit there is something wrong in it. Much wrong.”
“Aye.”
“Add to that the fact that I have been haunting the places Brasha likes to linger, at the spring and the training field, in order to insinuate myself and catch a word wi’ her. Here and there, ye see, so she will no’ get suspicious. There is a sharp mind behind those sly eyes of hers.”
And a clever one, so it seemed, in the head of Mistress Liadan.
“I began by being all sympathetic toward her, saying how much she must miss Conall and be grieving for him. How much she must ha’ loved him. How much we all loved him. I looked for”—Liadan hesitated and drew a breath—“I looked for a mite of genuine feeling when she spoke of him.” Now anger showed in her eyes. “I found none. Naught but indifference. As if she had never cared for Conall at all.”
Ardahl absorbed that as best he could. “Yet,” he said unsteadily, “she lay wi’ him. More than once.” Conall had been ecstatic about it.
I will ask her to handfast wi’ me, Ardahl, just as soon as I can .
His eyes met Liadan’s again. “It meant much to him.”
“Aye. We were taught”—she fumbled a little—“one does no’ lie down wi’ a partner wi’out first giving one’s heart.”
Suddenly Ardahl felt sick. Conall had given his heart to Brasha. And all the while—
“What d’ye think she was about?” he demanded of Liadan. “I ha’ a mind to ask her.”
“As do I. Indeed, I had to bite my tongue to keep from challenging her on it. Yet folk handle grief in different ways, and all I have with which to accuse her is rumor.”
Ardahl snarled. “Rumor I well believe.”
“As do I.” Just like she had before, Liadan laid her fingers on Ardahl’s forearm, as if to calm him. “I will keep talking and gossiping and digging. ’Tis far easier for me to do than ye. We will find the truth.”
We . Ardahl took a rare comfort from the word. He had felt so alone since losing Conall and being sentenced to take his place.
He covered Liadan’s hand, still resting on his forearm, with his own. “I canna help thinking—”
“What?”
“Whether all this business wi’ Brasha had any bearing on what happened there at the training field, that last day. Conall’s anger wi’ me.”
Acknowledgment filled her eyes. “As do I. But would Conall no’ rather have been angry wi’ Brasha? With Cathair, if he found out.”
“Aye, so. And he did not confide in me as he so often had.”
“Or in me.”
Ardahl looked at her gravely. They two were left. He could only be grateful he had Liadan on his side.