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"And even if you did not get what you wanted—or what you thought you wanted—can you really say she gave you nothing?"

"No, I cannot say that," he said at last.

She nodded, pleased he could admit that much. It was a beginning.

"You are right, you know," she said. "Much as I hate to say it. You do need time. But use it well. And remember, if you need anything—anything at all—you only have to send to us. Or better still, come yourself. Jemmy and I had hoped you would stand godfather for the babe," she added, and he glanced at her, surprised.

"There's no need for that."

"'Tis custom for a babe to have one," she said lightly. "And who better than you? It won't be here until spring. Perhaps, by then, you will feel differently."

"Perhaps. Though I would not like to promise..."

"No need for that. If you come, we will be glad to see you." She stood and hugged him quickly. "Any time, Ronan. Whenever you can visit, you will always find a welcome here."

The morning was cool and bright, more like April than November. As Ravenspur faded into the distance, Ronan's heavy heart lifted a bit and he felt the first faint stir of the excitement he usually experienced when setting off on a journey.

By mid-morning he reached the cleft in the hills Alistair had described to him two days before. Ronan had not been able to find a polite way of refusing the favor Alistair asked, and now he must stop and deliver sundry gifts to an old man who dwelt here. With an impatient sigh, he turned his horse's head and cantered up the gentle slope.

At least his errand would not delay him long, he thought with relief as he spotted the bent figure standing on the crest.

"Good day to you, Grandfather," Ronan called. "I bring you gifts from Ravenspur."

"From Alistair?" The old man's voice was surprisingly strong, deep and rich and musical. "So he remembered. Let us see what he sent me."

Yet he made no move to unpack the saddlebag Ronan laid at his feet. He stood leaning on his staff, thick white locks blowing about his high brow, dark eyes fixed on Ronan's face.

"I am Fergus of the clan McInnes."

Ronan bowed politely. "Ronan Fitzgerald, at your service."

"Fitzgerald, is it? Now that's a fine Norman name on an Irish tongue! Which one might ye be?"

Once, not too many years ago, Ronan could have answered easily. "I am Irish," he would have said, and he would have laughed that anyone thought it necessary to ask. But that was before King Edward had issued his Statute of Kilkenny, declaring that his 'wild Irish' lords needed to be brought to heel.

Its purpose had been to remind the Normans of their glorious heritage, lest they begin to mingle too freely with their Irish neighbors. Its result had been to divide neighbor from neighbor, family from family, tearing apart the peaceful society Ronan had taken entirely for granted as a child.

"Who are your mother's people?" Fergus prompted when he did not answer.

What business is that of yours? Ronan wanted to say, but he bit back the rude response. Respect for his elders was too much a part of him to make such an answer possible.

"The O'Donnells."

"An old name," Fergus said, nodding. "A great lineage."

"Not to hear Grandfather Fitzgerald tell it," Ronan said lightly, bending to the saddlebags.

"Ashamed of your Irish blood, are ye?" Fergus rapped out suddenly.

"No more than my Norman blood," Ronan said, annoyed.

"I see."

Ronan had the feeling that the old wizard—for of course Fergus was a wizard, of that he had no doubt—saw far too much, perhaps more than he did himself.

He thumped a small cask of wine on the rock between them. "Can you manage this?" he asked, adding pointedly, "I cannot linger this morning. I must be on my way."

Fergus made no effort to lift the cask. "Where are ye bound?"