“I will go,” Aingeal said.
“No.” Seamus came away from the pillar. “Not out past Ardglas. Not while the border still smolders and every man with ears knows this house has been shaken.”
Ciarán’s mouth tightened. “My lord’s body…”
“Will be recovered,” Aingeal said, before grief answered anger and anger answered grief. “But not carelessly.”
She looked to Brennach. “How many riders can we spare?”
“Eight without weakening the gate,” Brennach said. “Twelve if we risk it.”
“Eight.”
Seamus shook his head. “Then I lead them.”
“No,” Aingeal said.
The blunt refusal made him stare.
“You hold the gate. Brennach takes the eastern watch. Tomas remains with the accounts and stores. Father Cillian comes for burial rites.” She looked at Ciarán. “You will come because he was yours.” Then she looked at Reginald. “And he will lead us to the grave because he made it.”
The hall seemed to draw breath.
Reginald lowered his head. “Yes.”
Ciarán took one step toward him. “And his insignia? His ring?”
The ring had been locked away since the council. Evidence. Proof. A small circle of gold that had become heavier than any sword.
Reginald looked to Aingeal. “It should go with him.”
Aingeal heard the carefulness in that answer. He was not asking permission to restore what he had stolen. He was offering to be seen doing it.
“Yes,” she said. “It should.”
The road south of Ardglas was wet and raw beneath the hooves. Rain had stopped, but water still clung to the hedgerows and lay in shallow mirrors along the ruts.
Aingeal rode at the center of the small party, Brennach behind her despite her order that he remain at the eastern watch, Seamus at her left because he had ignored instruction with the righteous confidence of a man convinced disobedience was service. Ciarán rode rigidly ahead, grief making his back stiff. Father Cillian’s mule picked its way with quiet patience.
Étaín had come too, wrapped in a dark cloak and riding with her chin lifted against everyone’s objections. She had silenced those objections by fastening her cloak with one look of bright, immovable certainty.
Reginald rode without banner.
No one spoke much.
Once, at a crossing where the road narrowed between two low stone walls, Seamus moved his horse close enough to Reginald that their knees nearly brushed.
“If this is a trap,” Seamus said, “I will put you down before your hand reaches steel.”
Reginald looked ahead. “If this is a trap, keep Lady Aingeal behind the wall and send two riders back before you strike. The ground slopes toward the marsh. Men will come from the left if they come at all.”
Seamus’s mouth tightened because the answer was useful, not defensive.
Aingeal heard it. So did Brennach. So did Ciarán.
Reginald led them to the leaning ash just past midafternoon. It stood beyond the high road, bent by years of wind, its pale branches lifted like an old hand against the gray sky. The earth beneath it had sunk slightly where rain had softened the grave.
Aingeal dismounted first.
