by Jayne Castel
Chapter Eleven
Mutton Stew
MUIN’S ARMS FASTENED around Ailene, just as she nearly fell over. He hauled her upright, and the feel of her warmth and softness caused his breathing to hitch. When he was sure she was not going to slip into the mud, Muin stepped back so that their bodies were no longer touching.
He almost pushed her away from him in his haste to get some distance.
“What is it, Ailene?” He was aware that his voice held a harsh edge, yet he did not soften it. “I’ve been traveling all day … I’m tired.”
Breathing hard, Ailene withdrew and pushed back the cowl of her cloak so that their gazes met properly.
Her eyes gleamed, although not from hurt or tears, but anger. “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded.
Muin tensed, his own temper kindling. First Fina and now Ailene—he was tired of women taking bites out of his hide this evening. “Leave it, Ally,” he growled. “Now isn’t the time.”
They stared at each other, although Ailene did not back away. Moments passed while the wind howled and the rain sliced into them. “I’m not leaving it,” she replied finally. “Is this how it’ll be from now on … you sulking … pretending I don’t exist?”
Muin folded his arms across his chest, his brow furrowing. She made him sound like a petulant child. “Of course not.”
“Then, it’s time we mended things.” She took a step toward him, clutching at her sodden cloak as another squall washed over them. “Come on … let’s get out of this foul weather.”
Muin hesitated, frustration pulsing through him. Ailene did not seem to understand. The hurt of her rejection was still an open wound. It physically hurt to be near this woman.
“I’ve made mutton stew,” she added hopefully.
Muin huffed out a breath, hesitating. He pushed his wet hair off his face as a particularly heavy gust pummeled them. Of course there was nothing he wanted more than to spend the evening with Ailene, listening to the lilt of her voice as she cooked for them. And yet being in her presence was torture. Did she not realize that?
He could not forget what had happened last time he visited her hut. It would always lie between them now, souring their once easy rapport.
“Muin?” Hurt flashed in Ailene’s blue eyes.
“Very well,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”
Muin followed Ailene to her hut, misgiving dogging his steps.
Spending time with her in his current mood was not wise, and yet he found it impossible to deny her. Despite his disappointment and soreness at being rejected, he still did not want to hurt Ailene.
Ducking inside out of the rain, Muin inhaled the aroma of mutton stew. An iron pot bubbled over the fire pit. The air inside Ailene’s dwelling was warm and dry. Muin rose to his full height, shook the rain from his hair, and shrugged off his sodden mantle, hanging it up behind the door. Ailene passed him her cloak, and he pegged it up next to his before crossing to the fire pit.
The warmth of the glowing peat suffused his body, chasing away the chill, and Muin held out his numbed fingers toward it.
“I’m making dumplings to go with the stew,” Ailene announced, busying herself at her long work table. “I know you like them.”
Muin’s belly growled in answer, even before he had time to reply, and Ailene cast him a smile over her shoulder. “You must be starving?”
Muin grimaced. “I haven’t eaten a decent meal in two days,” he admitted.
His gaze followed Ailene as she prepared the dumplings: mixing ground oats with lard, herbs, and milk. She had taken off her dirty boots and padded about barefoot on the dirt floor. Her long plaid skirt was damp, its hem edged with mud, and water still gleamed off the bare skin of her arms. Her hair hung in wild, wet curls down her back.
She had never looked so beautiful.
Throat constricting, Muin dragged his gaze from Ailene and stared into the fire. Gods, how he wanted her. It was no good. It had been a mistake to agree to supper. Time would perhaps heal all wounds, but tonight his guts were still in knots, and his chest ached.
Ailene approached the fire pit then, with a wooden platter of dumplings, which she dropped into the bubbling stew.
Muin’s mouth watered at the sight of them. Despite his churning belly, he had not lied. He was so hungry he felt light-headed.
“Some mead?” Ailene asked.
“Aye,” Muin murmured. “Thanks.”
She passed him a cup and settled down onto a stool opposite.
An uncomfortable silence fell.
“The dumplings shouldn’t take long to cook,” Ailene said finally, flashing Muin another smile.
Muin nodded but didn’t reply. His quietness was making her uneasy. Beneath her smile, he sensed Ailene’s tension. He knew he was being sullen, yet he could not think of a thing to say. His mind was empty, except for a melee of angry, churning thoughts that Ailene did not need to hear.
He took a deep draft of mead, hoping that would relax him. It slaked his thirst, but it did not make him feel any better.
“I always thought you believed in my divinations.” Ailene spoke up once more, her expression growing solemn. “Do you think I’m steering everyone wrong?”
Muin dragged in a deep breath. “Of course I don’t,” he replied.
“But you think we should abandon our plans to attack An Teanga … and take back Dun Ringill instead?”
“Aye, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe the bones.”
Her brow furrowed. “You think I’m misreading them?”
Muin shrugged. He knew the gesture was dismissive, yet he could not help himself. “I know you sometimes doubt yourself, Ally.”
As soon as the words were out, Muin regretted them. Ailene’s expression visibly closed, her blue eyes shuttering.
“I confided in you,” she said, her voice hardening. “I told you things I wouldn’t breathe to another. Now I wish I hadn’t.”
Muin’s pulse quickened. He wanted to apologize, but something stubborn within prevented him.
Face stony, Ailene rose to her feet then and retrieved two earthen bowls from the table. She roughly ladled out bowls of mutton stew and dumplings, her movements choppy with anger, and handed one to Muin.
He took the bowl, careful not to let his fingers brush hers. Muin shoved a wooden spoon into the stew and dug into a dumpling. It was hot and scalded his mouth, but it was easier to focus on eating rather than the awkward, fraught conversation.
Ailene went quiet, and Muin had devoured half his bowl, before he glanced up and saw that she had not touched her stew. Instead, she was looking at him in a way that made him grow still.
It was the same expression his mother had worn when he had behaved badly as a bairn. Her gaze had narrowed. Her soft mouth had thinned.
“I don’t know what’s come over you, Muin,” she said, her voice low and hard. “But I wish the man I used to know would come back.”
Muin left shortly after supper, and Ailene was relieved to see him go.
The door thudded shut behind him, leaving her alone by the fireside. Ailene did not move for a long while.
It had been a mistake to invite Muin to supper, to try and mend things between them. They had both crossed a bridge and burned it behind them; there was no returning to the way things once had been.
She realized that now.
The friendship was indeed ruined.
Muin, who had been so kind and understanding all these years, whom she had confided in about nearly everything, suddenly seemed a surly, confrontational stranger. She could not undo what had been said, or seen.
She would just have to accept it.
Ailene’s throat suddenly thickened then, a lump rising. Irritated, she swallowed hard.
Times were bleak for her people, and it looked as if she would have to deal with what would come on her own.
It was odd really—that she should feel lonely. After her parents’ deaths the folk of Dun Ringill had rallied around her. She coul
d not have wished for a more loving community.
Yet at the same time, she had always felt an outsider. No surprise really that she had chosen the path of bandruí, a role that would always keep her a little apart from folk.
Don’t hide behind your role, Ally. The words of her aunt Ruith came back to her then. The old woman had known of Ailene’s tendency to shy away from others. Don’t use it as an excuse to keep those whom love you at bay.
Was that what she was doing now?
Muin had always been so good to her. He was three years her junior, yet she had never seen him as a little brother. He was her best friend, a ‘wise soul’, as Ruith had once called him, with a seriousness that belied his years.
Ailene was not blind. She knew that Muin was attractive: tall and strong, with long, dark silky hair. She had noticed other women flirt with him, smiling up at the chieftain’s hulking son under fluttering lashes.
Their attempts had once made her smile, for Muin did not revel in the attention the way his cousin Talor did. The first time it had happened, he had blushed like the setting sun, although she had seen he had grown accustomed to female attention over the years. He had even once taken a lover, a comely widow who had since wed again—to someone else.
But Ailene had never been jealous. She had never seen Muin as anything other than a friend.
It did not matter how disappointed he was, she could not help how she felt.
Chapter Twelve
Stubborn
LAUGHTER AND MUSIC greeted Ailene as she wove her way through the crowd. Warriors thronged the wide dirt space in the heart of Balintur, their faces lit by braziers lining the square.
The strains of a harp and a woman’s voice filtered through the crisp night air. Eithni and Tea were performing.
The corners of Ailene’s mouth lifted. Two days had passed since her supper with Muin, and for the first time since that evening, she felt her heart lighten. As a child she would listen to the sisters perform for the folk of Dun Ringill. Eithni played like a fairy maid, and Tea had a voice to make the Gods weep. They sang a happy, bawdy tune now, one about bountiful harvests and amorous wives and husbands.
This was the last evening before the campaign to take back An Teanga began. Tonight’s gathering was a send-off for the army.
Ailene had not felt like attending. A melancholic mood had settled upon her since the scouting party’s return; dark shadows dogged her steps. Even so, she had forced herself to leave her warm, safe hut and venture out into the chill, windless evening.
Stopping near the middle of the gathering, Ailene’s gaze went to where the two sisters sat upon a wooden platform, performing.
The years had been kind to both Tea and Eithni. Their faces looked alive and youthful as they performed for the crowd. The two women were of The Wolf tribe and had been instrumental in weaving peace between the two peoples. Ailene’s mouth curved further. The sisters were as different as night and day: Tea tall, dark, and proud; Eithni small and brown-haired. One was a warrior, the other a healer—and together they had done much to strengthen The Eagle.
Although they were no relation to her, Ailene saw both women much like aunts. Eithni especially had been a good friend of her mother’s and had cared for Mael during her illness.
As Ailene looked on, Eithni’s slender fingers danced across the harp strings. Her hazel eyes shone with delight as Tea accompanied her, and the surrounding crowd started to clap in time with the song.
Ailene found herself clapping along with them, the heavy mood of the past few days sloughing away.
She had not wanted to join the revelry, but she was glad she had.
Cups of warm mead were being passed around, and Ailene took one gratefully. She wrapped her chilled fingers around the warm wooden cup and continued her path through the throng to where Fina and Talor were deep in conversation. Fina was scowling, while Talor appeared to be trying to convince her of something.
Ailene slowed her step as she approached, unwilling to intrude. However, a moment later, her friend and cousin both spotted her. Fina’s scowl disappeared and she smiled, while Talor waved her over.
“I’m glad you came,” Fina greeted her. “I was beginning to think I was going to have to drag you out here.”
Ailene laughed before raising her cup to her lips and taking a sip of warmed mead. “You almost had to … I’ve not felt that sociable of late.”
She realized Talor was watching her. Her cousin’s sea-blue eyes—the same shade as hers—were narrowed, his face uncharacteristically serious. “Is all well, cousin?” he asked. “The chieftains have asked much of you of late.”
“Aye, everything is well,” Ailene assured him with a smile. “Don’t fret.”
“Do you have concerns about the campaign?” Fina asked, her brow furrowing once more.
Ailene shook her head. “I’ve cast the bones every morning since the decision was made to take back An Teanga … and nothing has changed. The omens look favorable for The Boar … less so for The Eagle.”
Both Fina and Talor’s expressions darkened at this, and Ailene’s chest tightened. This was why she had started to avoid folk of late; like a crow upon their shoulders, she felt as if she was a harbinger of doom.
Glancing around, Ailene spotted Muin on the other side of the gathering space. He was speaking to his father, Galan. Standing close, their gazes fused as they talked, Ailene was struck by just how similar father and son were, although they looked like they were arguing.
Seeing the direction of Ailene’s gaze, Fina raised an eyebrow. “I know … it’s not something you see often.”
Ailene shifted her attention to Fina. “What are they arguing about?”
“Muin has asked the chief to remain in Balintur, while he leads The Eagle warriors,” Talor replied. “They’ve been fighting about it for days. Uncle Galan doesn’t like the idea.”
Ailene glanced back at the two men. Muin was gesticulating now, his dark brows knitted together. Galan, however, looked as immovable as a block of granite. He took a step back from his son, heavily muscled arms folding over his chest.
“I’m not surprised,” Ailene murmured. “Galan is proud.”
Talor snorted. “It’s the way between fathers and sons,” he replied. “Da doesn’t like it when I question him these days either … at a certain age the old wolf starts to feel threatened by the cub.”
Fina laughed. “Or maybe the cub just needs teaching some manners.”
Muin and Galan finished their argument then, with The Eagle chieftain shaking his head, his expression thunderous. Muin turned on his heel and stalked away, heading toward where Talor, Fina, and Ailene stood.
Ailene’s belly tightened at the sight of his approach. She had hoped to avoid Muin this evening.
Muin looked intimidating when riled, she noted. Anger turned his features hawkish and deepened his storm grey eyes.
“No luck, I take it?” Talor greeted his cousin with a half-smile.
Muin shook his head before muttering a curse under his breath.
“He won’t stay behind and let you lead The Eagle?” Talor asked.
“No … you and your father are tasked with that.”
Talor scowled. “What? I’m staying behind?”
“Aye … Donnel will rule in my father’s stead while we’re gone, and you and Tarl will help him.”
Talor’s expression turned thunderous. “Whose idea was this?”
“Not ours, obviously.” There was no mistaking the bitter edge of Muin’s voice. “Both our fathers don’t trust us to make decisions on our own it seems.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I think that all the chieftains, except Varar, should remain at Balintur during the attack. We must keep this village strong. It makes sense to let Varar lead the siege.”
“Your father’s stubborn,” Fina pointed out, a small, wry smile playing upon her lips, “and he likes to be in control.”
Muin’s mouth twisted. “Aye.”
Listening to the convers
ation, Ailene felt misgiving settle over her. “Are you going to An Teanga?” she asked, addressing Muin for the first time.
Muin met her gaze, his expression shuttered. “Aye … father wants me and Aaron to fight at his side.”
The evening wore on, and drinking and conversation shifted into dancing. Men and women whirled around the heart of the gathering space, hair flying behind them as they clapped, stamped, and twisted in time to the music.
Muin watched from the edge of the crowd, fingers clamped around a cup of untouched mead. It had long since gone cold; he had little appetite for drink this evening.
They would move out at dawn, and he wanted a clear head.
Nearby, Ailene and Fina were deep in conversation, heads bowed together, while Talor was flirting with one of Tadhg mac Fortrenn’s daughters. His cousin had been annoyed to discover that he was remaining in Balintur with Donnel, but a few cups of mead had mellowed his mood.
Muin’s humor, on the other hand, had only gotten darker.
Frustration churned within him. Not only had his hopes of a future with Ailene been crushed, but his father had made it clear that he did not trust Muin to lead The Eagle warriors into battle.
It was insulting. Muin had proved himself repeatedly of late, but it seemed that Galan wanted his son to follow orders, not give them. He took counsel from his brothers, yet he did not want his son’s opinion. The harder Muin had pushed, the more stubborn his father had become.
It was a fight Muin was never going to win.
“Good eve, Muin.” A brown-haired woman with warm blue-grey eyes stepped up before him. “It has been a while.”
“Gavina.” Warmth rushed through Muin as he leaned forward and kissed the woman on the cheek. “How have you been?”
“I’m expecting a bairn,” she announced. Indeed, one of her hands splayed across her swelling midriff. She wore a long sleeveless tunic with a fur stole around her shoulders. “It’s due just after Bealtunn.”
The first genuine smile in days stretched Muin’s face. “Congratulations.”