He stood at the window and looked at the thin line of morning, telling himself what he had told himself all night. When the second hour after dawn came, if the castle endured one more morning without disaster, Aingeal would decide again whether he stayed, went, or was put in irons.
He heard the first shout, faint through stone. Then sharper.
Then the heavy, unmistakable clang of alarm from the yard.
Reginald did not think. He moved.
The nearer guard was already on his feet when Reginald opened the door. “Stay here,” the man barked, more from habit than confidence.
Smoke touched the corridor air. Fire.
Another shout rose from below. Then Seamus’s voice, loud and savage, calling for men at the gate.
The second guard swore and half turned toward the stair.
Reginald said, his voice flat with certainty, “If that is from one of the outer holdings, the lower road will choke with carts before your riders are mounted.”
The nearer guard looked at him, torn between duty and terror.
Another bell began, the sharper one kept for attack.
Reginald shouldered past him and took the stair at a run.
The yard below had already dissolved into motion. Men crossed it in every direction, some half-armed, some pullingon belts as they ran. One horse reared near the stables, eyes rolling white. Smoke climbed beyond the far wall in a dark, ugly column.
The fire was not inside the castle. It was farther out. One of the outer holdings, perhaps more than one.
The smell hit Reginald as he reached the bottom of the stair: wet ash, burning thatch, pine, fear.
Aingeal stood in the middle of the yard with Brennach at one side and Tomas at the other, giving orders faster than the men around her could carry them. Her hair was half braided and half loose, as though she had dressed while moving. She wore no veil, only a dark cloak thrown over a wool gown belted close. Her face was pale, hard, and wholly commanding.
Reginald stopped at the edge of the confusion, weaponless, watched by two guards who plainly did not know whether to seize him or use him.
“North ridge!” Seamus shouted as he came at speed from the gate. “Fintan’s lower holding. Barn fired, cattle driven, three men down, and more missing. They came fast and split before the watch reached them.”
The lie had broken. The alliance had shattered. Weakness had a scent, and enemies always smelled it first.
Tomas said, “They struck sooner than expected.”
Brennach swung on him. “Do not waste breath on surprise.”
Aingeal had not moved. “How many?”
“Couldn’t count cleanly in the dark,” Seamus said. “Enough to burn and be gone if we answer slowly. Enough to take the road if we answer badly.”
Reginald saw the shape of the attack at once. A test, yes, but more than that. They were pressing the bruise. Seeing whether the castle would flinch. If the answer was hesitation, they would come harder. If the answer was confusion, they would not stopat a barn next time. They would take the whole holding and slaughter what remained.
He stepped forward before anyone called for him. “Seamus.”
Every head within earshot turned. The yard went silent for one hard beat.
Aingeal looked at him. Not only startled but wary. Wounded still.
“The lower road will be watched,” Reginald said. “If they split before the watch reached them, they expect pursuit through the obvious line. Send one troop hard north through the ash stand and another wide east to cut the retreat toward the marsh. If they are driving cattle, they will lose speed before the ridge.”
Seamus stared at him, plainly deciding whether to listen or curse him to hell.
Brennach asked, “And who leads what?”
