Chapter Five
It was possible that Broccan hadn’t handled that as well as he could have. With each passing day he felt less and less in control of his anger, his grief all but swallowing any other emotions. Time heals all wounds, indeed, he thought sardonically.
He watched the woman storm off toward the river, her gray dress swaying frantically behind her. She probably lived on the western shore, for she veered sharply south toward the ford. Now that the bridge was gone, it was the only way across.
When she asked him why he needed the damned cinnamon, he’d considered telling her it was for his wife.
But Cormac and Illadan both told him it was time to move on, and he’d hesitated.
She used to be his wife. In his heart, she always would be.
But calling her that now made it seem as though she yet lived.
The woman had stormed off before he’d landed on what to say to her.
And what would Teamair say to him, if she’d seen him so grumpy with an innocent woman at the market? She’d have had several things to say to him, if memory served, and he deserved every one of them.
Brooding over the encounter, Broccan returned to the king’s hall to find his companions packing their belongings. Conan and Illadan insisted that they stay at this guesting house they loved so dearly, even though Cahill’s holding was perfectly capable of housing them all.
Cormac spotted him first, as always. The three of them—Broccan, Cormac, and Illadan—shared leadership of the Fianna. Illadan was the de facto leader. He issued the commands. He made the hard decisions. The trials for entry were his project.
Broccan was the taskmaster. He kept everyone in line and had the final say on their training protocol. With years of experience leading Brian’s armies, Broccan was the best man for ensuring that the Fianna were ready for a battle.
Cormac was the advisor. He saw everything, past what anyone else could reasonably discern. When the men needed an ear, they went to Cormac. When Illadan and Broccan disagreed, Cormac mediated. As steady as the sea on a calm, clear day—that was Cormac.
“You look riled,” Cormac observed. His tone held no judgment.
Broccan bristled anyway. “When am I not?” He strode into the king’s hall, finding his pack and weapons in the same corner where he’d left them hours ago. The fire in the hearth still crackled happily, as though it were taunting him with its joyous dance.
“You look more riled than usual,” Cormac amended.
Lifting his pack, Broccan carefully tucked the doll inside. He didn’t care that Cormac watched. Most of the men had known his girls, had watched him slowly unravel after he’d lost them. Setting the pack back down, he picked up his sword belt to fasten it around his waist.
“You didn’t get anything for Teamair?”
The blood rushed through Broccan’s mind, his head still pounding. “I tried, damn it, but that damned woman took the last one,” he ground out.
Instead of taking the opportunity to poke fun at his poor word choice, as many of the others would, Cormac’s calm, quiet prodding never wavered. “Took the last one of what?”
“Cinnamon!” Broccan shouted, his control finally snapping.
“I couldn’t find any beads, and the only thing in the entire market that Teamair likes was the cinnamon and there was only one stick left and that blasted woman grabbed it and wouldn’t even let me pay her for it.
” The story spilled out in a chaotic spray of pain and frustration.
“I’m sorry,” he added when the rushing sound receded in his ears.
“You don’t deserve to have me shouting at you. It wasn’t your doing.”
“Liked,” Cormac replied.
“What?”
“You said ‘likes,’” he explained. “You should’ve said ‘liked.’ It was the only thing in the market that Teamair liked,” he repeated.
“She’s gone, Broccan. I know that brings you great pain, and I’m sorry for it.
But I don’t think you’re doing yourself any favors by speaking of her like she’s there waiting for you in Cenn Cora. ”
“Says the man whose wife is waiting for him.” The rushing returned. “You know nothing of my pain.”
“You’re right. I don’t. I’m lucky that all my family yet lives.”
“Then stop spouting platitudes over things you can’t understand.”
Cormac took a step toward him. “I’ve watched you languish for almost a decade, old friend. I held my platitudes for many years. But I won’t watch you destroy what little you have left because you cannot keep your pain from becoming anger.”
“Fine,” Broccan growled. “Tell me what you came here to say and then leave me be.”
“It’s not your fault that they died.” Cormac took his time with each word, letting them sink in. “You have every right to be in pain, to be angry. What you went through was terrible, and no man should have to bury his wife and daughter. But I want you to listen to what I’m about to say.
“Grief is for the living, not the dead. It’s not some sacred thing you must clutch and squeeze to prove that you still love them.
You will always love them, and they will always know that.
Grief is a bag of stones you carry as you walk forward in your life without them.
It’s the burden that you bear to learn to live a different life than you imagined.
Every so often you take a stone out. You remember the joys in life.
You find new ones. As you walk, you leave them behind one by one until the bag is empty—lighter, but never gone.
But you, my friend, you’ve forgotten to take out the stones. ”
Each word he spoke felt like a dagger carving a hole into Broccan’s chest. “Are you finished?”
“For today.”
Broccan had nothing to say to that. Instead, he hoisted the heavy pack onto his shoulders and followed Cormac from the hall.
They walked across the entire town of Ath Luain, from King Cahill’s holding on the eastern bank of the River Sionainn, across the mile-long river ford, and through every street on the western bank until they reached the far edge of town. The walk took nearly an hour.
The Hart’s Rest, they’d said it was called. It was an odd name, and Broccan wasn’t entirely sure he liked it. The guesting house was smaller than the king’s hall, its meager palisade made of wattle instead of wood and affording little, if any, true protection. More of a privacy screen, really.
Though the hostelry itself wasn’t terribly impressive, the smells of freshly roasting chicken made Broccan’s stomach growl.
It had been weeks since he’d had a proper meal.
They’d not taken a cook with them on their journey north.
It was much too dangerous a trip for anyone who couldn’t wield a sword.
Maybe once he sat down and filled his belly Broccan would finally be able to put that afternoon’s events from his mind.
Conan hurried into the building first, mauling some tall, dark-haired woman who carried a sword and wore trews. If he’d dragged them all here just so he could sate his lust, Broccan was going to have words with him.
He took in the large common room, lit by a combination of the hearth fire and braziers.
It was bigger inside than it had looked, but still dwarfed by Brian’s own hall.
A muffled roar filled the firelit room, the tables overflowing and everyone chattering too much to be eating properly.
Broccan couldn’t make out what any of his companions said as they added to the clamor, but it didn’t seem terribly important, anyway. Just small talk.
Illadan, Ardál, and Cormac hung back. Broccan walked over to stand by Illadan. He wasn’t about to chance another lecture from Cormac tonight.
A belly-deep laugh, loud enough to surface over the other conversations, rose up from the center of the room. Broccan quickly identified the source of the sound. His eyes landed on a petite woman bent over one of the tables.
A very familiar petite woman.
Broccan’s head pounded. It couldn’t be.
But it was.
She turned just enough that Broccan saw her face properly—the same damned woman who’d stolen his cinnamon.