The boy’s face fell.
Donal handed him one half of the broken sword. “We can.”
Aingeal should have gone back inside. There were ledgers waiting. A complaint about grazing rights. A message from the western watch. A castle did not run because its lady spent the morning repairing toys. Instead, she said, “The ash wood will be too heavy for him.”
Donal turned to her. “Will it?”
“For a boy that size, yes. Hazel would suit better.”
The boy looked between them, hope returning. “Lady Aingeal knows swords?”
“She knows everything,” Donal said gravely.
“I do not.”
The boy considered this. “Most things?”
“Enough things,” she allowed.
Donal’s mouth curved.
Together they crossed to the woodpile with the boy trotting after them. Aingeal chose a length of hazel, straight enough and dry enough to hold. Donal tested its weight, then handed it to the boy.
“Too heavy?”
The boy swung it with both hands and nearly turned himself in a full circle.
Aingeal caught the back of his tunic before he toppled.
Donal’s brow rose. “A formidable beginning.”
The boy beamed.
“That one is too long,” Aingeal said. “Unless you mean him to defeat enemies in the next county.”
“Ambitious,” Donal said, “but impractical.”
The boy laughed again.
Donal found a shorter piece. Aingeal fetched a strip of worn leather from the saddler’s discard basket. Donal borrowed a knife from Seamus, who watched with the grim patience of a man pretending he had better things to do.
“You are spoiling him,” Seamus said.
“I am arming him,” Donal replied.
“With a stick.”
“Most armies begin with sticks.”
Aingeal glanced at Seamus. “You began with a stick.”
Seamus grunted. “And became a terror.”
“A warning to us all,” Donal said.
The boy giggled so hard he pressed both hands over his mouth.
Aingeal wrapped the leather around the grip while Donal shaved the edges smooth. Their hands worked near each other, not touching, not lingering. There was no charged silence because there was no silence at all. The boy asked questions without pause.
