“The faster riders take the ash stand,” Reginald said. “The heavier men swing east and force inward if the raiders break. Leave ten here. If this is feint work and the real strike comes after the gate empties, you will need them.”
Tomas already saw it. Reginald knew that look in him now.
Aingeal saw it too. And because she saw it, the whole yard saw within a breath that he was right.
Brennach looked at her. So did Seamus. So did the men close enough to hear.
Aingeal’s voice cut through the pause. “Who rides where?”
Reginald answered only because time was burning with the barn. “Seamus takes the ash stand. Cormac takes the eastern swing. Keep the center line ready to answer whichever side breaks first.”
Brennach grunted. “And you?”
Reginald looked at Aingeal. He had every reason now to take a horse and flee.
The yard was in chaos. The gates were open. A blade could be stolen from the armory or torn from some startled boy’s belt. He could be beyond the north ridge before they had finished deciding whether he still counted as danger or asset. The thought barely formed before he killed it. He had already lied to her under a dead man’s name. He would not now leave her standing in smoke and confusion with his absence added to the debt. “I ride where the fighting is worst,” he said.
Seamus gave a disbelieving, angry sound. “With what? Your bare hands?”
Reginald never looked away from Aingeal. “Give me a horse and a blade. Cast me out after, if you still mean to. But let me keep them alive first.”
The whole yard seemed to lean toward her answer.
Aingeal’s face closed over itself like a drawn gate.
For one heartbeat, Reginald thought she would refuse him. Refusal would spare them both the sight of needing one another yet again.
Then she said, “Arm him.”
Seamus swore softly.
Brennach said nothing.
Tomas let out one breath through his nose, as if a tension he had expected had finally broken into action.
Aingeal did not look at Reginald as she continued, her voice all command. “Not Donal O’Raida. Reginald FitzUrse rides under my authority and under watch.” Her gaze moved to Seamus. “If he turns from the field, kill him.”
The words struck like cold iron. Reginald bowed his head once. “As you command.”
A sword was brought. Then a horse. Not his own, but a rangy black gelding with more temper than beauty and enough wind left in him to matter. Reginald buckled the sword on with hands that felt suddenly too calm. Not because he was untroubled,but because action had always entered him cleanly, even when conscience had not.
He swung into the saddle while men mounted around him. Seamus barked names. Cormac cursed one lagging rider into motion. Tomas called for waterskins and extra bowstrings. Overhead, the bells had stopped. Smoke still climbed thick and black beyond the wall.
As Reginald gathered the reins, Aingeal stepped closer, close enough that her next words would not carry.
Rainwater still darkened the hem of her cloak from the yard stones. Her face was pale. Her eyes were bright with pain she did not have the luxury to yield to.
“If you mean to run,” she said, “do it now. I will not have you vanish under my orders and send my men chasing a coward while my people burn.”
He looked down at her.
There was no softness in that moment. Only hurt. Authority. And the deep, raw thing still alive between them despite every reason it should have died.
“I will come back,” he promised.
Her mouth tightened. At the promise, perhaps. At the memory of promises already broken. She gave one small nod and stepped away.
The gates opened.
