Chapter Fifty-Three
I n the morning, even before Maeve returned to the hut, Ardahl rose, dressed and went out with his weapons. Many were the fervent kisses exchanged between them first, the desperate, whispered promises and assurances.
But the fact remained. As Liadan watched him step out into the watery sunlight, she acknowledged it.
She might never see him again.
He went off to take the place he’d been assigned, to guard the chief. Attack could come at any time.
For an instant, standing there watching his auburn head disappear between the huts of the settlement, she felt sure she could not bear it. Too much loss, too much pain and uncertainty. A woman could not live with such uncertainty. There must come a time when her life, her heart, could settle.
Yet she’d given her heart to this man, whatever that might entail. And better, she admitted fiercely, a life of uncertainty with him than a dull and secure existence with anyone else.
“Whatever the gods may bring me,” she murmured aloud, “I accept for his sake.”
When Maeve came home, they worked together sorting out the belongings they would need to take with them if they had to flee, and loading them into packs. These they set beside the door.
Later, when Liadan went out to fetch water, she saw nothing but other women like herself all wearing distracted expressions. Unhappy mothers hurried about tasks and spoke to their children in tense, harsh voices, hoping to keep them close. The very air had a sharp, stifling feel. She looked for Flanna, but could not spot her, so when she had filled her ewer, she stopped by Mistress MacDragh’s hut, where her sister had been staying all the while.
She found both girls—Flanna and Lasair—outside the door, sharing duties at the quern stone. When Liadan paused there, Flanna looked up at her with doubt and little sign of welcome.
“Flanna, sister, I’ve come to ask if ye will come home.”
Flanna took a moment before she answered. “Is he still there?”
“He?” Liadan questioned, even though she knew to whom Flanna referred.
“Ardahl MacCormac.”
“Aye. Ye know full well he is assigned to stay wi’ us. To fight and hunt and otherwise care for us in Conall’s place. It is his—”
“Punishment, aye. And ours. I will no’ come back if he is there.”
“Flanna, there may be more dangers coming. I would like ye with me.”
“Nay, not while he serves his punishment. Anyway, the hut is no’ the same wi’ Mam gone. I can scarce stand to set foot in the place.”
Mistress MacDragh stepped out from the hut behind the girls to listen.
“Please, Flanna—it would mean much to me for us to be together once more.”
Flanna said nothing. Lasair would not meet Liadan’s gaze.
Though she hated to do so before these others, Liadan asked, “Do ye still blame me for Mam’s death? Is that it?”
“Nay.” The denial was not convincing.
Quickly, Mistress MacDragh said, “Liadan, pray, do not worry. Flanna is very much welcome here and safe wi’ me.”
“Mistress”—Liadan faced her—“there may be further attacks ahead. If we are forced to flee—”
“I shall make certain she gets clear away.”
What could Liadan say? She nodded and went off, feeling more unsettled than before.
When she reached her own hut and set aside the water, she said to Maeve, “I am going past the training field.” Ardahl might be there. “Will ye come wi’ me?”
Maeve looked torn. “Should we take our packs?”
That made Liadan hesitate. She knew as well as anyone that anything could happen just a few steps from home.
“Aye.”
Dragging their packs, they went. Other women stood at the stone enclosure wall ahead of them, yet it was strangely quiet. The men were there, but they did not practice.
Instead, unless she was very much mistaken, they mustered for battle.
The sight terrified her so, she turned sick inside. Aye, she had expected this. But seeing the men with their weapons on their shoulders and the chariots rolling up in a line made it seem immediate and all too real.
She searched for Ardahl and found him on the far side of the field with the chief. As if he felt her gaze, he turned his head and their eyes met. Swiftly, he leaned in and spoke to Fearghal before jogging over to meet Liadan and his mam at the wall.
“Ye be mustering,” Liadan burst out.
“Aye. We leave this night. Fearghal wishes to cover the distance to the border in the dark. To be waiting there for Dacha, if—”
“If Chief Brihan goes down,” Mam said.
Ardahl looked at her. “Aye. Or if Brihan needs to fall back there, and we have to stand with him.”
Before either woman could reply, he reached for Liadan’s hands. “Come wi’ me.”
“What?”
“I ha’ Fearghal’s permission.” He leaped the wall, still holding her hand in his.
“Where?”
“To see Tamald. There is time—just—before we depart.”
Liadan searched his eyes, which appeared flinty and determined. She spared one glance for Maeve before allowing Ardahl to tow her away.
“What—” she tried again as they hurried along.
“I am going to tell Tamald what happened when Conall appeared to me. Relate what he said. See if I can get him to lift the sentence upon me. Then when I return from the fighting—if I return—ye and I can be joined as we should be. Handfasted, as is right.”
Liadan’s heart bounded—a painful surge of perilous joy. She dragged him to a halt. “That is what ye want?” she asked, gazing into his eyes.
“’Tis all I want. Liadan, ye must know that I live and I breathe only for ye.” He reached out and touched her hair very gently. “If I know ye may in truth be mine—that will gi’ me the strength to fight my way home, if aught can.”
“Aye.” She could see the power and beauty of it, and hope trembled inside her, enough almost to banish the doubt. “But will Tamald believe ye?”
“If he does no’, who will?”
They ran the rest of the way, Ardahl with his weapons and Liadan with her pack over her shoulder, and arrived at the druids’ hut breathless.
Tamald was there, the place in disarray, as if he and his companion had also been sorting through belongings to take with them, should they need to flee. The two men spoke in low, terse tones and looked up in annoyance when Liadan and Ardahl darkened their doorway.
“Wha’ is it, Master Ardahl?” Tamald asked. “Does the chief call for me?”
“Nay, not yet. We leave at sundown. Are ye coming with us?”
“Aye,” Tamald said unhappily. He nodded at his companion. “Master Reghan will stay here with the tribe.”
“Master Tamald, I would beg a few moments o’ your time. Now, before we leave. I ha’ the chief’s permission, and it is important.”
The look Tamald gave Ardahl was unusually impatient. He drew visibly on his composure before he said, “Is it somewhat that cannot wait? We are going to war.”
“’Tis somewhat I would have settled before we go to war.”
Tamald sighed. “Come.”
They sat knee to knee in the watery sunlight, the three of them. Liadan had rarely been so close to one of the priests, and she felt a measure of awe.
Yet her heart rose on the thin blade of hope. If she knew that Ardahl might be hers then, aye, she could endure anything.
Tamald had clear blue eyes that remained serene in his tense, pale face. “Master Ardahl, what is it?”
“’Tis about the sentence Aodh imposed upon me following Conall’s death. I was directed to take his place, to become Conall, for all purposes. Live out the rest o’ my life carrying his obligations.”
“Aye, so. I was party to Aodh’s decision to impose that sentence, as was Reghan. We gave it full and heavy deliberation. According to the Brehon law, it provided for the best justice.”
“And I ha’ sought to fill my place—that place. I have.” For the first time, Ardahl seemed to falter. To lose his determination.
Liadan took it up. “Master Tamald, Ardahl has done all ye asked o’ him. Guarded us in Conall’s stead. Defended and provided for us. But—he and I ha’ fallen in love.”
The priest’s eyes widened. This, he had not expected.
Ardahl said, “We wish to handfast. I would like to know before I go off to fight that I have permission for it.”
“Nay. It is impossible.” Tamald bit the words off harshly, if with regret. “Forbidden.”
“Even if my sentence was unjust? If I can prove I did no’ and would never harm Conall?”
“Unjust?” Tamald sounded offended. “How so?”
Ardahl launched into the story. Conall’s appearance beside him at Dacha, helping him to fight. Their journey in the chariot after, when Conall had told him what Cathair and Brasha had done. How they’d schemed against him for Cathair’s gain.
Tamald listened, Liadan had to give him that. He forgot his impatience and gave his full attention to the tale. She could not tell what he did or did not believe.
“And so I thought,” Ardahl concluded, “if ye could see fit to lift the sentence—”
“Lift it,” Tamald repeated.
“As unfounded. Ye can surely see it never should have been imposed.”
Tamald hesitated. He looked into Liadan’s eyes before searching Ardahl’s face. His lips formed a hard line. “Forgive me,” he began, and Liadan’s heart leaped.
Was he going to express regret for being mistaken? For believing Ardahl could ever harm his closest friend? Was there hope for them?
Tamald went on, “I do no’ mean to express doubt for your accounting. ’Tis no’ in me to doubt that the departed can return to us, especially in times o’ great need. Yet at such times, we can also imagine such visions.” He shook his head. “’Tis but a story. Ye ha’ no proof.”
“Proof!” Anger kindled in Ardahl’s eyes. “Am I to summon the shade o’ Conall here to stand before ye?”
“Nay, but the law is the law. Ye ask me to lift what has been imposed so that ye may join wi’ one who is as good as your sister. The only way I may do so is if Cathair—or at the least Mistress Brasha—might come to me and admit full well what they did.”
Ardahl blinked at him. “Ye expect Cathair to confess? Cathair, of all men?”
“Or Mistress Brasha.”
“Then,” Liadan said, sickness settling once more in her gut, “they would be disgraced. Shamed. Master Tamald, neither o’ them is likely to take that on.”
“I am sorry,” Tamald said. “Truly I am. Whether I believe ye or no’, surely ye see I need more than the accounting o’ a tale to bring such condemnation down upon them.”
“Yet ye took Cathair’s word that I slew my dearest friend.”
“And so condemned us,” Liadan half sobbed, “for all time.”
“If Cathair comes to me and admits his fault, I will lift the sentence. I can do no better,” Tamald said. He got to his feet. “Now I must go and prepare to leave. Ye must also,” he told Ardahl. “Time is short.”
He left them. Liadan stumbled to her feet and Ardahl rose after, a hard, bemused look in his eyes.
Liadan seized his hands. “Mayhap there is still hope.”
“Cathair will never admit fault. ’Tis the last thing he will do. And should he perish in the fighting—”
Their eyes met. If Cathair perished, he could never speak. The small flame of hope Liadan had cherished went out like a guttered rush light.
“Ardahl, I am frightened.”
He gazed into her eyes, his devotion plain to see. “All is no’ lost,” he whispered. “No yet. We will be together, Liadan. Have I not promised ye?”
If not in this lifetime, then in the next.