His.
No, he thought at once. A priest’s cleverness. Churchmen liked moral cleanliness too much. They loved drawing hard lines through men who had lived in mud, politics, and war.
And yet the defense no longer settled as firmly as it once had.
He remembered Henry’s fury too well. Remembered the words not as decree, but rage. Remembered how quickly he and the others had seized upon them. How ready they had already been. How little persuading had been required.
Had he obeyed? Yes. Had he also wanted action? Wanted resolution? Wanted the matter ended by steel because steel was the language he understood best? The thought split something beneath his ribs. For the first time, he could not say with full conviction: I merely obeyed.
Tomas watched him too closely. “It is only one account.”
Reginald folded the parchment once. “Yes.”
“But it troubled Father Cillian enough to mention.”
“Cillian is troubled by half the world.”
“And by you?”
Reginald looked at him.
Tomas did not look away. After a moment, he said, “You needn’t answer that.”
Reginald tucked the folded parchment into his belt. “See that the villagers from Fintan’s are brought inside the walls before dawn.”
Tomas nodded. “Aingeal has already ordered it.”
They crossed the yard together for a few paces before Tomas turned toward the hall and Reginald toward the stables. The horses would need readying for the northern ride, and a man in motion could sometimes outrun thought for a little while.
Not tonight. Every step only tightened the snare around him. Desire. Étaín’s recognition. Aingeal’s suspicion. Canterbury. Theletter at his belt. The memory of her mouth. The memory of her stepping back from him as though from an edge.
He stopped outside the stable doors and stood beneath the eaves while sleet began, fine and sharp, ticking against the yard stones.
If the truth came from Étaín, Aingeal would hear it as exposure. If it came by rumor, she would hear it as cowardice. If it came only after his disappearance, she would hear it as final proof that she had loved a lie and been left to carry the wreckage alone.
There was no road left that did not wound.
But one road was worse than the rest.
The old instinct in him still wanted delay. Still wanted the people of her castle to look at him as one of their own. One more day. One more ride north. One more border matter settled. One more breath before he put into words the thing that might drive her from him forever.
That instinct had kept him alive. Now he saw it for what it was.
Self-preservation.
He rested one hand against the stable door and bowed his head briefly. He was not ready to confess. Not ready to repent. Not ready for forgiveness.
But something had broken in him all the same.
When he lifted his head, the sleet had thickened into colder rain. Somewhere behind those stone walls, Aingeal moved through her own unrest, loving him enough to be wounded and distrusting him enough to recoil.
If he let the truth reach her by any mouth but his own, he would not only lose her. He would deserve to. For the first time, Reginald understood that silence no longer protected her from the truth.
It only protected him from the cost of speaking it.
Chapter twenty-one
Twice that morning, Étaín nearly went to Aingeal.
