“She does no’ deserve to pay for this misdeed.”
“I am no’ certain ye do either. But the druids have spoken.”
The door at Ardahl’s back swung open a crack. Liadan peered out, lit by the garish red morning.
She took in Ardahl and Muirin. “I wondered who was speaking.”
Muirin gave a short bow. “My condolences, mistress. Conall was among my closest friends, and I was ever so fond o’ him.”
“Thank ye.”
Ardahl and Liadan both watched the young man walk away. Easier that than for Ardahl to face the deep wound in Liadan’s eyes.
“I am certain,” he said slowly, “he is but the first of your visitors this morning.”
Liadan said nothing in response to that. Instead, she swept the door open farther and thrust a pot at him.
“Conall always fetched our water first thing.”
Ardahl accepted the pot but did not move. “How is your mam this morning?”
Her face clouded, proving its rosiness a mere reflection from the horizon.
“She is sick and groggy from the draught. And just look at that red sky!” She tossed her hands in the air. “I suppose ye will expect breakfast.”
“Do no’ worry for me.”
She swore bitterly, a curse Ardahl could not mistake, since it had been so often on Conall’s lips, and shut the door.
With the ewer in hand, he trudged off to meet his fate.
Chapter Nine
In the past,Ardahl had marched out to meet his fate more times than he could number. Gone on foot or horseback into a battle, not knowing if he would return. That had been easier in some ways than what now had to do.
At the well, it being a common place, he found half the tribe gathered. Women with bairns in their arms. Aged warriors no longer fit for much beyond helping with household chores. Children who had slipped beyond their mothers’ reach.
He walked into a storm of condemnation. Aye, he knew the people of his tribe, knew how they loved to talk about one another, to whisper. To rate a warrior or a shanachie and the way a woman kept her home.
Respect was the highest coin that could be offered, or obtained. And respect was earned through deeds and appearances.
He had now fallen among the lowest of the low. The slaves, the disabled who could fight no more. The disgraced and condemned.
He did not suppose his appearance helped any. He’d gone straight from the practice field to a cell and thence to his sentencing. He had spent a night outdoors, all without access to clean clothing or an opportunity to groom, beyond the violent scrubbing he’d done.
Yet he went with his head high. Not because of who he was but because of who Conall was. He had taken Conall’s place, had he not? He would not then creep like someone dishonored.
Much would be revealed by the way his fellow tribesfolk received him. Teasing and clever mockery were considered a form of liking. Hard anger might be marked by shouting and accusations.
The folk at the well met him with silence. Indeed, it unfolded before him as he approached, like the dark of night. Even the small babes in their mothers’ arms stopped peeping like birds and stared with wide eyes.
People shied from him. They peeled away from the well and moved off as if they did not want to breathe his air.
Stooping to the stone-lined spring, where the water bubbled up into a shallow trough surrounded by a low wall, he filled the ewer.
The tribe had settled here because of this spring. A holy place, it was said to be, with healing properties. The first of their ancestors, wanderers with no more than a few beasts to their names, had found the place and stayed.
No one, especially greedy chieftains from the west, should drive them from here. He, like many others, had determined that. Yet the pressure from the west grew intense.
