Chapter Thirty-Two
D ornach should not be working. That much appeared obvious when Ardahl arrived at the practice field, that wide, green-turfed expanse surrounded by a wall of stone. The man bore a number of desperate wounds, not the least of which was a great, bloody gash to his face that, as he moved, refused to stay closed. Beneath the man’s stoical expression, Ardahl saw pain.
But the same was true of nearly all of them, himself included. In the past, in ordinary times, none of them would be considered fit to drill as yet. These were not ordinary times.
Take the fact that when Ardahl reached the field following his encounter with Liadan, his marvelous encounter with Liadan, the chief was there before him, and at work.
Though Fearghal—who had less than two score winters—was in essence a warrior, and though he’d gone to fight with them in the last battle, he did not ordinarily train with the rest of the men. Ardahl knew that Dornach sometimes worked with him in private. Now he had stripped down to his kilt and leggings like the rest of them, displaying the wounds he carried.
Ardahl’s own wounds stung as he walked across the turf to join the others. But inside—inside he still carried the great joy that had unfurled inside him, born of having Liadan in his arms. A warmth, it was. A precious, living thing birthed between them. Come to him like some secret power, a gift of the gods.
One that just might keep him alive.
He could still feel her in his arms, taste her on his tongue. He carried her scent. What was mere pain or weariness compared to that?
On an ordinary day, the training field was a noisy place. Men shouting to one another, contesting in mock battle. Weapons rattling. Challenges issued. Today it brooded beneath a sky that promised rain. The gathering clouds cast shadows across the green. But the silence, more than aught else, told Ardahl how much had changed.
He meant to join a group of men working together near the center of the field, but as he went, Dornach looked up, caught his eye, and gestured him over to where he and the chief stood.
“Master Dornach. Chief Fearghal.” Ardahl bent his head.
“Ardahl.” The chief held a weight of grief, exhaustion, and what might be anger in his eyes. Aye, so, they were all angry. But the emotion had been thrust away beneath the others.
For now.
Dornach spoke. “Chief Fearghal asks that ye train wi’ him, Ardahl.”
“Me?”
“I request it,” Fearghal said. “I would be honored by it.”
That stole all Ardahl’s breath. A day, this, of astonishments.
Taking in his expression, Fearghal smiled ruefully. “Did ye no’ save my life there on the border?”
“’Tis my place and my duty to save your life.”
“’Tis the proof o’ a loyal man, to say so.”
“But, my laird, I am dishonored.”
“So ye do be. And I am no’ certain I can lift that from ye, what our priests have imposed. Under law, a sentence is a sentence, aye?”
“Aye.”
“But ye be also a lion o’ a warrior, and I owe ye a debt o’ gratitude. Not that I deem mysel’ so very important as a man. But as a chief?” Fearghal grimaced. “That be something else again. The only thing that could make our situation worse would be the loss of the clan’s chief at this place and time.”
“Aye, so.”
Fearghal’s brother had been slain in battle some two years back, and his son had but seven winters or so, far too young to lead.
Ardahl eyed his chief candidly. “Yet ye plan to return to battle, should we go? Ye would continue to risk yourself?”
Fearghal spread his arms and gestured widely. “As ye can see, we are woefully short-handed. Every warrior counts. And I was that—a warrior before ever I was chief.”
One could not fault the man for courage.
Again, Ardahl bowed his head. “I will be honored to practice wi’ ye, since ye ask it.”
“I do. Have I no’ declared ye foremost among our warriors? No’ formally, perhaps. There should be a declaration in the hall.” Starkly, Fearghal concluded, “There is no hall.”
“’Tis no’ necessary, my chief.”
“It is quite necessary, especially given the circumstances. I know fine ye stand disparaged in the eyes of many. But I want ye to stand anyway at my side.”
He nodded at Dornach, who stood by silent, his eyes watchful. “Though he will no’ freely admit it, my war chief is sore injured. Ye may be injured also. That did not keep ye from preserving my life.”
“My laird, the other men—they will protest if ye name me first among them.” Cathair would, though Cathair too bore livid wounds, including one that coursed across his forehead and fair disfigured him. “They will no’ want to yield a place o’ such honor to one they consider disgraced.”
“Mayhap not,” Fearghal admitted.
“Cathair—he will believe the place should be his.”
“Ardahl.” The chief’s clear blue eyes met Ardahl’s. “I do not know what happened between ye and Conall. He was a high-hearted, valiant young man, and I liked him right well. He is dead, and his blood was on your hands. But I saw ye fight in this last battle, and had Dornach’s account of the one before that. These being dire times, I want ye at my side.”
Emotion fair choked Ardahl’s throat. “May I speak plainly, chief?”
“Please do.”
“I am no’ at all certain either what happened between me and Conall. How he came to have a dirk in his heart. I would have sworn blind he could not turn on me in anger as he did, but ’tis what occurred. And the dirk did end in his breast.
“I now carry his sword, no’ my own. I fight—and live—in his place. If ye want Conall’s sword at your side, ’tis at your command.”
“Good man.” Briefly, Fearghal gripped Ardahl’s shoulder. “When again we roll out to fight, your chariot will be second only to mine. In any battle, you will fight at my right hand.”
“Ye think, chief, we will enter battle again?”
“Och, aye.”
“Soon?”
“I hope to deal wi’ Brihan first. He is supposed to be my ally, at least nominally. Instead, he came onto my land and slew innocents while I was away fighting another enemy. He needs to be challenged for that. If he has turned his cheek, we indeed have a great problem on our hands.”
Fearghal let his eyes wander over the field. “I must, aye, challenge Brihan. But I would stall it as long as possible. We need to heal. And mourn.”
“Aye, chief.”
“To be sure, if Dacha decides to return and attack us at our weakest—perhaps wi’ Brihan’s help—we will no’ be able to choose the time o’ our battles. We will be fighting here.” His eyes met Ardahl’s. “For our lives.”
“I understand.”
Only, Ardahl would not be fighting for his own life, or even Fearghal’s. For his mam. And for the woman who had so inexplicably taken possession of his heart.
They drilled for the rest of the day, even after the clouds lowered and the threatened rain began to pour down. Ardahl did his best to ignore the stares of the other men who watched him drill with their chief. And the glares from Cathair, whose ugly expression might well have felled him.
Trouble there, Ardahl thought as he at last left the field. But aye, they had nothing but trouble.
Fearghal had worked hard, no one could deny it. So had Ardahl and his wounds stung as he started away. He longed for nothing—not even food or drink—so much as to see Liadan.
He would walk past the hut to see if she was still there—better perhaps to spend the night there than in the open, given the rain, even if she felt uneasy in the place.
The door of the hut was tied shut—against the rain?—and firelight flickered around the edges of the leather door. He knocked at the doorframe, and Liadan swept the curtain aside.
“Mistress? Might I come in?”
“Please.”
Her eyes met his, conveying so much more than the simple word. Inside, almost nothing looked the same. The floor had been swept, the furnishings dragged about and rearranged. The curtains at the sleeping benches had all been tied open and a good fire burned at the hearth.
“Put your weapons here.” She took them from him and laid them beside the door. “Come near the fire. Ye be wet to the skin.”
“Aye.” But he did not move from where he stood. “Liadan, be there ghosts here?”
She gazed around the place and bit at her lip. “I suppose there are. But we have come to an understanding.”
“Ye wish to stay here, then?”
“I wish to stay here tonight. Wi’ ye.”