“Dead men are often made simpler in story than they were in life,” he said.
Étaín’s eyes sharpened.
The cleric nodded. “A fair answer.”
But Reginald saw it had not satisfied her, because she had not been asking about history. She had been asking about him.
The meal went on. Ordinary life resumed, as it always did, swallowing the dangerous thing and moving around it.
Reginald answered Seamus on patrol routes. Deferred to Brennach on supplies. Did not seek Aingeal’s gaze, though he felt her beside him like a wound.
And all the while Étaín watched. Not constantly. She was too clever for that.
But every few moments he felt the inquiry return.
By the time the hall emptied, he knew two things. Aingeal’s coldness was no passing mood. And Étaín suspected who he really was.
He found the stables because his first impulse was to flee.
The stable was not silent. Horses shifted. Leather creaked. A hoof struck wood. The air smelled of hay, manure, damp earth, and warm animals. A man knew where he stood in a stable. A horse wanted grain. Leather wanted oil. Nothing pretended to be anything else.
Reginald stopped at his gelding’s stall.
The horse lifted its head and huffed softly. Reginald stepped inside and ran a hand down its neck.
He did not reach for the saddle. If he were truly leaving, he would have done it already. Quietly. Efficiently. Before one more meal tightened the lie around his throat like a noose.
Étaín knew something. It would not be long before inquiry became action. If he left tonight, he might still outrun the full unraveling.
Then he thought of Aingeal.
Not the cold woman at supper. Not the one whose public cruelty had left him absurdly winded. He thought of her in the infirmary with blood on her fingers and fierce concentration in her face. Of her on the battlements, hair half-loosed by wind. Of her hand flat beside his on the map table.
He swore under his breath. Wanting her was not reason enough to stay.
If he fled, by dawn the castle would know Donal O’Raida had vanished. The council would know. The servants. The guards. And if Étaín already suspected, his departure would confirm everything.
The shame would not cling to him alone. It would fall on Aingeal. On her judgment. The alliance already spoken aloud. On every border lord watching for weakness. On every man who had ever looked at her and thought too young, too female, too alone.
Reginald rested both hands on the stall door and drew one long breath.
He could not leave her.
“I thought you might be gone.” Aingeal’s voice came from the stable door.
Reginald turned.
She stood in the entrance with a lantern in one hand, her cloak drawn tight around her.
“I considered it.”
She stepped inside. “And?”
“And leaving now would do more harm than staying.”
“To the castle?”
“To you.”
