Conor raised his head, surprised. “Because I gave you my word. I will stay here and teach you, and you will send word after Aine.”
“I am already your enemy. And still you are determined to keep your word?”
Conor nodded and said nothing.
Haldor stood and paced before him. “I do not understand you. You are a warrior. You fight your fellow prisoner but not your enemy. My men insult your honor, your woman, force you to act as a slave, and you allow them. Is it because you follow this dying god?”
This was not just an idle question. Conor sent up a prayer for guidance. He could be facing his end. Or he could have an ally.
“In a sense,” he said finally. “We consider oaths to be solemn before Comdiu. If we break an oath, we break our word to Comdiu, not just man.”
“What if I say I plan to kill you?”
“Will you keep your word to have Aine released, even if I am dead?”
Haldor shook his head in wonder. “You sacrifice yourself for a woman. We value women in my land, it is true. What Ulaf says about your wife is just words, unless she is sold as a concubine. But a woman is not worth a warrior.”
Conor studied Haldor. Something in his tone carried an underlying sadness. “Are you married? Do you have children?”
Haldor’s breath hissed out from between his teeth. “My wife is dead. We had no children.”
“I love my wife, whether she is deemed worthy or not. Because I love her, I count her life as more important than mine. Even if that means I die. Do you understand?”
Haldor stared at him, so intently that Conor had to resist the urge to reach for a weapon, even though he clearly had access to no such thing. Finally the warrior reached into his tunic and pulled out two parchments.
“Here. The last settlements. They do not have her.”
Conor’s heart squeezed in his chest as he took the scrolls and skimmed them. No one had seen any Aronan woman resembling Aine in the last several weeks or months. He let out a sigh of relief even as a cold tendril of fear wormed its way into his heart. He handed the scrolls back to Haldor and indicated the tablets that held their lesson. “Shall we continue?”
Haldor fingered the intricately carved ivory hilt of his sword. “You will continue your teaching?”
“You have kept your word, and I will keep mine. It is my oath before Comdiu.”
Haldor settled beside him, but this time he did not remove his sword. They worked through Conor’s chosen Scriptures without another word on the matter.
In the days that followed, however, Haldor’s weapon was never far from hand.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Aine refused to leave her room for two days, remaining wrapped in her embroidered bedcovers and eating only when the cook sent a tray with Lia. She couldn’t face Macha and her lords, the speculation, the whispers. Lia had put about that Aine was recovering from her ordeal and didn’t feel up to dining in the hall. It wasn’t far from the truth.
On the third day, a knock sounded at her door. Aine rolled over and buried her head in her feather pillow. Lia would enter without knocking, which only left people with whom she had no interest in speaking.
But the pounding continued. Aine threw the blankets aside and padded to the door. She finger-combed her tangled hair and straightened her chemise before she cracked it open.
Master Guaire stood there, a tray in his hand. “May I enter?”
Aine swallowed and dipped her head. The steward nudged the door closed behind him and then set the tray on a low table by her bed. “Do you mind if I sit with you while you eat?”
“Why?”
Guaire smiled. “I’ve served Clan Tamhais since I was a child. I was manservant to Lord Ruaidh, your father’s father. Then Alsandair. And your mother. Of all the ladies of Forrais, your mother was my favorite.”
“Why?” The question escaped for a second time, this time from curiosity.
“You cannot help but notice that Aron is a hard place. And hard places breed harder people. But your mother—she had a light about her. An unusual grace.”
“Is this where you tell me I remind you of her?”
Guaire chuckled. “No, though it’s true. I have a question for you. Do you think your mother was happy here?”
Aine had never thought about it. Lady Ailís had always been placid, loving, dutiful. She’d acted as the wife of a chieftain should, always for the good of the clan and the people who depended on them. But now Aine was ashamed to realize she had never asked.
“I don’t know,” she said finally.
“Neither do I.”
Aine jerked her head up.
“When she came, she was like you. She cried for days over leaving her children back in Seare. I think she wondered if she’d made the right decision.”
That was another thing Aine had never questioned. Why had a Seareann queen married a foreign clan chief in the first place? She looked to Guaire, the question hovering on her lips.
“Things were different twenty years ago,” the steward said. “Faolán had just spent years warring against Sliebhan with great losses on both sides. I don’t recall what began the conflict, if I ever knew. Both the king and his tanist were killed in battle, and Calhoun was barely eight and ten when he was elected king. Siomar saw that as a weakness they could exploit. So did one of Faolán’s lords. He began to sway others in his favor. Gainor was even younger than Calhoun, though he already had shown a mind for strategy. If Calhoun and Gainor could be shown as unfit to rule and removed by the council, power would pass from the clan.”
“Mac Eirhinin. Keondric’s father.” It made sense now. Then Aine realized what Guaire was really saying. “My mother bought Calhoun’s throne.”
“Your father was in a situation similar to your brother’s. He had no heir, and he was under pressure to make peace with Lord Riagain. He refused. Instead he linked Clan Tamhais to Faolán’s royal line—a match no one could refuse—and sent enough clansmen south to secure Calhoun’s throne.”
“Why have I never heard this?”
Guaire smiled sadly. “Because no one could ever know. It simply looked as if Calhoun had hired mercenaries and Ailís had left out of grief over her husband. People suspected, of course, but there was no proof.”
It explained so much that Aine had never thought to question. “Why are you telling me?”
The steward put a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Your mother made sacrifices. In some ways, she never stopped grieving. But she didn’t let it change who she was or prevent her from doing all in her power to help those around her.”
“You’re telling me to stop hiding in my room feeling sorry for myself.”
“I’m telling you that your mother found contentment in having a purpose.” Guaire rose and gave her a deep bow. “It does my heart good to have you back at Forrais, my lady.”
Aine stared at the wall long after the steward left. Guaire was right: she had no way of knowing if Conor were dead or alive. If he had risked all—sacrificed all—to bring her back home, didn’t she owe it to him to make something of her life here?
“My lady?” Lia poked her head into the room. “Granddad—Master Guaire—said you were ready to dress.”
So he’d been that confident in his success, had he? A reluctant smile creased Aine’s face. “I suppose I am. We’ll need to summon a dressmaker soon. I’ve only the pink and the blue.”
“And the green.” Lia dipped her head. “I hope I didn’t overstep, my lady, but I hemmed another of Lady Ailís’s gowns. I thought you might need a plain day dress.”
“Thank you, Lia.” Was the girl really only fourteen years old? But of course, she was Guaire’s granddaughter, and the steward was looking out for her. “May I see it?”
Lia smiled, less shyly this time, and disappeared out the door. She returned with a sage green wool gown draped over her arm. “Shall we, my lady?”
The maid helped her into the matching underdress, then the overdress, and laced up the side
s. Aine fingered the fabric, noting Lia’s other modifications.
“The sleeves were old-fashioned. I hope you don’t mind that I changed them.”
“Not at all.” Aine took the brass hand mirror and studied her reflection. Master Guaire wouldn’t let her mope in her chamber all day. That meant she needed to make her presence known at Forrais. “After you do my hair, I’d like to meet the staff. Will you make the introductions?”
Lia bowed her head and curtsied in acknowledgement, but not before Aine saw the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.
By the time Aine made the rounds of the fortress, her head ached with the effort of holding all the names and faces in her memory. Not that the servants would expect it of her, but she’d never wanted to be the sort of noblewoman who snapped her fingers and called every female servant girl.
“What about Diocail and the guard?” Aine asked when they’d finished their rounds of the keep.
Lia’s eyebrows lifted, but she steered Aine into the rear courtyard. Aine paused to lift her face to the dim gleam of sun through the clouds. Somehow the familiar smells calmed her—earth and hay, smoke, food, animals. No matter the location, the scents and sounds of a noble keep were the same. If she used enough imagination, she could see herself striding toward her own little workshop, spending her mornings grinding powders and mixing tisanes.
Well, why not?
Her breath caught in her throat. Why couldn’t she? She might be trying to hide her healing abilities, but she knew as much herb lore as any of Aron’s physicians, thanks to Mistress Bearrach’s tutelage. If she were careful, she could heal with herbs without anyone becoming the wiser. How could Lady Macha object to that when she’d permitted as much before Aine left?
“My lady?”
Aine opened her eyes. “Shall we find Master Diocail, then?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Whereas the front of the palace at Forrais faced a cliff, the back courtyard stretched out upon the flat top of the mountain, encompassing a scattering of buildings and a grassy field within its high stone walls. It was the grassy area they sought now, where a handful of men trained with swords and staffs. A long line of archery targets stood against the weathered outer wall.
Aine and Lia paused at the edge, watching as a dozen guardsmen drew and fired with precision. Clan Tamhais had always been known for their archers, and Aine could see why. Before they’d seen more than a few volleys, a man strode in their direction.
Aine’s stomach fluttered. She’d always been slightly uneasy around the master of the guard. Perhaps it was because he’d been an unyielding, unsmiling tutor throughout her cursory training. Or perhaps it was that particular edge of steel in him that all men bred to warfare seemed to possess. He strode toward her and then pulled up short in a precise bow.
“Lady Aine, welcome back to Forrais.”
Aine studied him as he straightened. The only nod to the passage of time was a bit more gray in his dark hair, the slight deepening of lines in his face. She had no more idea of his age now than she’d ever had as a child.
“Thank you, Master Diocail.” She couldn’t utter the expected words that it was good to be back. She would prefer to be almost anywhere but here.
“Are you here to train, my lady? I remember that you were once quite accomplished with a bow.”
“I fear you’ve embellished my skill beyond reality, sir.”
He did not smile. “I do not embellish, my lady. It might do you good to have a bow in your hands once more.”
He was serious. Aine tipped her head. “Perhaps you’re right. Another day, though. Today I just wished to greet those who are responsible for the workings of Forrais.”
“I am at your service.” Diocail gave another bow, deeper this time. When he straightened, the corners of his mouth tilted up. “Tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow.”
The captain nodded sharply. “Excuse me, my lady. I must get back to my men.” Then he strode back toward the archery range, calling instructions as he went.
Lia stared at the man, her lips parted as if interrupted mid-sentence. “He smiled at you.”
“That was a smile?”
“The closest Master Diocail gets.” Lia turned a searching gaze on her. “You really don’t see it.”
“See what?”
The maid shook her head. “Perhaps I’m imagining things. Come, my lady. It’s nearly time for dinner.”
Aine watched the captain for several moments before following Lia. What had she missed in that exchange? And why did it seem as if everyone knew far more about her than she herself did?
She still took her dinner in her room alone, not yet ready to face the scrutiny of Macha’s lords and ladies. Yet as she sat down to her meal, the thoughts that had surfaced earlier in the day came back with troubling persistence. Guaire wanted her to find a sense of purpose to take her mind off Conor. What else did she know how to do besides heal?
When the maid came to remove her tray, Aine tasked her with finding writing materials. Lia quickly returned with two wax tablets and a stylus, and Aine settled at the desk to make a list of things she would need to get started. She then found Master Guaire in the kitchen and handed the tablet to him without a word.
His eyebrows lifted. “So it’s back to healing, I see?”
“What have I forgotten?”
“You’ll need a work room, certainly.”
“I thought I might use my mother’s chamber.” Aine held her breath. Servant or not, Guaire had final authority of the keep.
“I think Lady Ailís’s chamber would do nicely,” he said finally. “You’ll be needing a workbench and shelving, I imagine?”
“Will that be a problem?”
“Not for me. It may take me a week or two to lay hands on these materials, but it will be done. You’ll need to speak with Master Diocail about an escort to gather herbs on your own.”
She did indeed need to see Diocail, though she had no idea if he would provide her an escort. They were, after all, his men. Though she was a member of the household and well within her rights to request such a thing, Aine also knew that demanding her rights as daughter of the clan would cause more trouble with Macha than she wanted. Covert action was her best option, at least while she was setting up her work space. Once she began seeing patients, it would be impossible to hide her activities and the extra attention they brought.
It remained to be seen what Macha would do about it.
Aine barely knew Master Diocail, but something told her that if she were going to request a favor from him, she’d need to give him something in return.
The next morning, she rose, dressed in the green wool, and strapped on the leather bracers Lia had procured for her. Her stomach erupted into butterflies, despite the fact she needn’t make a great showing, merely a passable one—enough of an effort to elicit more than a handful of words from the taciturn captain.
She went straight to the armory. Diocail wasn’t present, but one of the watch captains was. She gave him a friendly smile. “Might I trouble you for some help, sir?”
He straightened from the blade he was honing and swept a hasty bow her direction. “My lady? I’m at your service. How can I assist you?”
“I need a bow. Naturally, a long bow isn’t going to be suitable.”
“That’s no problem. We’ve lightweight bows for the boys to use until they’re strong enough for a war bow. Begging your pardon, my lady.”
“Not necessary. Might you find me one and a quiver as well?”
He gave a quick nod and disappeared into one of the back rooms, then returned a moment later with an unstrung short bow and a cloth quiver. She took them with a smile, which made the young captain flush, then asked, “I don’t suppose you know where Master Diocail is?”
“I’ll fetch him, my lady. You can go to the range if you like.”
That had been easy. Almost too easy. She’d have thought, given Macha’s attitude toward her, the members of the keep would be mo
re reticent, but they’d been positively eager to help. Was the chieftain disliked by others that much? Was helping Aine a small rebellion on their part?
The archery range was deserted this morning, though the sounds of wood and metal drifted from some other point in the courtyard. Sword training today, then. Just as well, assuming the watch captain followed through on his promise of fetching Master Diocail. She found a spot at the center of the firing line and braced one end of the bow at her feet while she bent the yew and attached the other end of the string.
Aine planted several arrows into the ground in front of her, then settled into a comfortable stance and nocked one. She sighted down the arrow’s shaft and let it fly.
It bounced off the target and fell into the grass.
“You’re drawing with your arm, not your back,” a male voice said behind her. “Try again.”
Aine glanced over her shoulder to where Diocail stood a dozen paces away, arms crossed over his chest. He gave her a nod, an invitation to continue. She turned back to the target and concentrated on drawing the bow properly.
This time the arrow traveled straight, striking the target within the painted red ring.
She shot a satisfied glance Diocail’s way. The slightest hint of a smile touched his lips. “You always did have a talent with a bow. Your father’s daughter indeed.”
Aine returned the smile and went back to her practice, each time improving her accuracy, even though her arms and back immediately began to ache from the exertion. Too bad Conor wasn’t here to see her. When she’d told him she was a fair archer, he’d barely been able to keep from laughing. Then again, he hadn’t yet grown into manhood or his fighting skills. She’d comforted him by telling him that not everyone was cut out to be a warrior, yet that was exactly what he had made of himself. Had he not been quite so determined to prove her wrong, she wouldn’t be alive today.
But he might be.
“My lady?” Diocail’s quiet voice caught her attention.
Aine realized that tears were rolling down her face. She swiped them away impatiently.
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