“Aye, and there are generations o’ warriors behind me.”
“Me, also.” Tighe looked half proud and half ashamed. His heritage must go unacknowledged. Shyly he asked, “Would ye work wi’ me? In our spare time, that is.”
Deathan snorted. They had no such thing as spare time.
“I ken fine,” Tighe said, “ye may no’ be staying long. So Ardroch says.”
“That is wha’ Ardroch says, is it?”
“Aye. He figures ye are lying low. Hiding out, mayhap. He says ye ha’ been a mercenary and may be again.”
That was the story and could come true, Deathan supposed, if he and Darlei had to go on the run—after he killed her husband. A favorite of the king.
“Let us just say I am here catching my breath.” And working himself to the bone.
Could this young man, though, be his way inside the house?
“I will work wi’ ye,” he told Tighe. “As Master Ardroch allows.”
“I will talk him into it.” A big grin spread across Tighe’s face before he went pelting off, presumably to do so.
Ardroch came to Deathan not long after. “Did ye agree to train young Tighe? So he says.”
“No’ to train him but to work wi’ him, show him a few tricks.” Deathan smiled. “If ye can find him a decent sword.”
“I might do.” Ardroch frowned. “Once this business o’ the king’s visit is o’er, I can tak’ on training him myself. He is a good lad.”
“I can see that, aye.”
“I believe”—Ardroch hesitated—“he seeks to bring himself to his father’s attention.”
“Ah.” That weighted Deathan’s heart. Tighe wanted MacNabh to notice him. Deathan wanted MacNabh dead. It scarcely seemed fair.
“I do no’ think,” Ardroch added morosely, “he will be successful. Now that himself has a new wife upon which to get a son—”
“I will work wi’ the lad. We shall see what we shall see.”
Work with Tighe he did, Ardroch having sought him a sword. The lad came looking for Deathan whenever they had even a suggestion of a breather or after work was done for the day, which meant they often worked in the dark, lit by flaring torches. Despite Deathan’s weariness and his fear over what was befalling Darlei, he enjoyed the sessions. He liked using his muscles for a finer purpose than moving a barrow or hefting stone.
It felt familiar and right.
At night, he should have been weary enough to sleep as if dead. Instead, he had strange dreams, flickers of light and darkness that, when he woke, hinted of memory. He fought in battles. He defended a settlement alive with flame. He trained a squad of women. He engaged in perilous combat and took a man’s head.
Memory, or imagining?
MacNabh’s men, guards and farmers and grooms pulled from their regular duties to prepare for the king’s visit, began to gather round while Tighe trained, curious to watch. Ardroch tried to discourage it, presumably not wanting MacNabh to find out what they were doing, but it proved impossible. As easy to discourage wasps from a pot of honey.
Deathan went easy on the lad, because he wanted to encourage him. Some sword masters slapped their studentsdown at every opportunity, but he went lightly, only tapping the lad with his blade when he made a mistake and telling him, “I could have had ye then.”
Tighe always grinned good-naturedly.
One afternoon when it rained lightly and the men took it as an excuse to suspend work, Deathan noticed a woman had joined the onlookers. She stood solemn, her eyes wide, and her hands clasped tightly. Slight and diminutive, her sandy hair had turned mostly gray.
“My mam,” Tighe said when he saw Deathan glancing at her.
“Och, aye.”
The woman’s gaze was fierce. Protective.
