He could not leave her.
Chapter nineteen
The boy was trying very hard not to cry.
That was the first thing Aingeal noticed when she crossed the lower yard after morning council.
He stood near the edge of the training ground with a wooden sword broken cleanly in two, one half clenched in each fist. He could not have been more than seven. His hair stuck up in damp tufts, and his lower lip trembled with the fierce effort of keeping sorrow from becoming sound.
Donal noticed him too. He had been speaking with Seamus about the northern watch, but his gaze shifted to the boy, then to the broken sword, then to the older lads pretending not to see.
Aingeal followed as Donal crossed the yard.
“What happened?” he asked.
The boy drew himself up with grave dignity. “It broke.”
“So I see.”
“It was not my fault.”
“I did not say it was.”
“Liam said I struck like a goose.”
Aingeal pressed her lips together.
Donal looked toward the cluster of older boys by the fence. Every one of them suddenly found the mud near his boots fascinating.
“A goose can be dangerous,” Donal said.
The boy blinked.
Aingeal looked at Donal in surprise.
Donal’s expression remained perfectly solemn. “They have wings, speed, and vicious tempers. I have seen grown men retreat from geese.”
The boy stared for one stunned heartbeat. Then he laughed.
The sound burst from him so suddenly that something inside Aingeal loosened. The older boys laughed too, though carefully, as if unsure whether they had permission.
Donal crouched and held out his hand. “May I see it?”
The boy surrendered the broken sword.
Donal examined both halves with the same seriousness he might have given a battlefield relic. “Poor wood.”
“It was my favorite.”
“Favorite things are often loved past their strength.”
Aingeal heard the quiet beneath the words and looked at him.
He rose and glanced toward the woodpile near the smithy. “We can do better.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “You can make one?”
“No,” Donal said.
