“I am Seamus of the Western Ridge,” he said. “I know this castle backward and forward. Very little happens here without my knowledge.” He tilted his head slightly. “You crossed paths with a rider today.”
Reginald nodded once. “I did.”
“That was Lady Aingeal.”
He saw her at once in memory: the proud set of her shoulders, the fierce intelligence in her face, the quick temper, the competence. The way she had gone straight to the trapped sheep without pausing to consider what the brambles might do to her hands. “She rides like she owns the wind,” he said with a hint of admiration.
Something like approval flickered in Seamus’s face. “She owns more than that. And she is no fool. She has little patience for men who admire themselves too greatly.”
“I stand where I am useful,” Reginald replied.
“We shall see.”
Seamus jerked his head toward the yard. The open area rang with the life of a working castle: smith’s hammer on metal, shouted orders, boots thudding on packed earth. Young squires clustered near the fence. Soldiers sparred with blunted weapons. Several turned openly to study the newcomer.
Seamus called one forward. “A demonstration.”
Reginald stepped into the open space and accepted the practice blade offered to him. It felt wrong after years of real steel, too light, too harmless, but he adjusted his grip without comment.
His opponent came at him hard.
Reginald met the first strike cleanly, turned the second, then stepped inside the man’s reach with quiet precision and no wasted force. He used the man’s momentum against him, sent him off balance, and ended the exchange before it had properly become a contest.
The men watching grew quieter and more attentive.
The second bout lasted longer.
The third, less.
When it was done, Reginald stepped back, breathing evenly.
Seamus gave one short nod. “Good. We have need of men who can hold a line and keep their heads.”
Reginald lowered the blade.
“Your name,” Seamus asked.
“Donal O’Raida.”
Silence settled around Seamus for the space of a breath.
A warning stirred low along Reginald’s spine. Did Seamus know the real Donal O’Raida? Had he heard the name oftenenough to know the accent sat wrong on it? Something in the man’s stillness suggested the answer was not simple.
Then a cold breeze crossed the yard, carrying woodsmoke, stew, and the smell of wet stone. Reginald glanced up without intending to.
Movement crossed one of the upper windows. The sweep of a woman’s cloak. The turn of a head.
Lady Aingeal.
The field returned to him with surprising force: her fierce mouth, her unflinching gaze, the hard, quick answer she had given him.
I ride like someone who knows how to get back up.
Before he could stop it, the faintest smile touched his mouth.
Seamus noticed. “Welcome to Castle Ní Néill, m’lord,” he said.
Chapter four
