Brigid,she prayed to the goddess as she stood there beside the cold fire, the very place where her mam had died.Look after him for me. Please, above all things.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Dornach should notbe 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.
