A faint flicker crossed his expression. Not fear exactly. Something more measured. Calculation, perhaps.
Or resignation.
“You will swear before God and men,” she said, “to your blood, your loyalties, your truth.”
“If I must.”
“You must.” The word fell between them with cold finality.
He bowed his head once. Respectful but somehow wounded.
That quiet acceptance maddened her more than defiance would have. He did not bluster. He did not ask mercy. He did not make it easy to despise him.
He had chosen to remain.
She hated that some part of her still admired him.
He walked away, measured and unhurried, and Aingeal stood staring after him with anger rising hot beneath her skin. She knew enough of guilt to recognize its outline in another person.
“I will not lose control again,” she whispered into the empty corridor.
This time, she would put the danger where everyone could see it.
Chapter eight
Reginald stood before the council with a dead man’s ring warm against his skin.
The chamber smelled of the sour warmth of too many bodies pressed too close. Above him, the green-and-gold banners of Ní Néill hung from the rafters like watchful eyes. Voices had lowered when he entered. That hush felt like judgment.
He had expected small humiliations from Aingeal. Traps set with courtesy. Private cruelties meant to force him from her path.
He had not expected this grand spectacle.
He should have left.
Instead, he had told himself one more day. One more day to think. One more day before flight became its own confession.
Across the chamber, Aingeal sat as though the chair had been carved around her. He could not tell whether she wanted him exposed or merely measured. Perhaps both.
Tomas read from the steward’s roll in a clear, even voice. Brennach sat broad and wary to one side, age-worn like armor. Padraig drummed thick fingers against the bench. Seamuswatched the room as another man might watch a battlefield. Father Cillian stood to one side of the long table with his hands folded and his face solemn.
Tomas’s gaze flicked to Reginald’s hand, then to the ring. The smallest acknowledgment passed between record and supposed lord.
For one breath, Reginald let himself breathe.
Brennach rose. “We assemble to witness a joining of houses. We assemble to hear the man who would bind his blood to ours speak before God and men.” His gaze fixed on Reginald. “Speak, then. And speak true.”
Reginald stepped forward. The boards beneath his boots felt solid.
Father Cillian’s voice carried softly. “When houses are joined, truth must be known. If any man stands here with falsehood in his mouth, let it be seen.”
Reginald looked once toward Aingeal.
Her eyes were already on him. She had asked for light. Here it was.
Tomas said, “Do you swear to declare your name and lineage before this house?”
“I am called Donal O’Raida. My line holds land in the south, at Rathmore. I swear by God and by the memory of my father that this is my name and my blood.” The lie came too easily. When he spoke of Rathmore, he reached inward for all he had gathered on the road: scraps of local history, place names, enough shape to sound rooted. The falsehood settled beneath his tongue like a stone he had learned to carry. For protection. No different from a sword at the hip.
