‘You saw me today in the high meadow. You helped me mark the cattle.’
‘I wanted to see you alone. Why are you here? Is it something I did? Or Wing? If so, I am sorry.’
‘It has nothing to do with you, Conn. It is just … the way of things.’
‘Was it what Mother said to you?’
Ruathain gently raised his hand, signalling an end to the questioning. ‘Conn, I shall not be talking about this matter. It is between your mother and me. However, no matter what passes between us, know this: she and I still love you – and Wing and Bran – and we always will. Now go home to bed.’
‘We are all unhappy,’ said Conn, making one last attempt. Ruathain nodded. ‘Aye, all of us.’
‘Can we not be happy again?’
‘You will be, Conn.’
‘What about you? I want you to be happy.’ Ruathain rose from his chair and walked across to the boy; hoisting him high, he kissed his cheek. ‘You make me happy, my son. Now go.’ Opening the door he lowered Conn to the porch step. ‘I shall watch you run home – in case the Seidh are out hunting small boys.’ Connavar grinned. ‘They will not catch me,’ he said, and sped off across the field.
In the months that followed Ruathain and Meria rarely spoke, save for those times when the Big Man came to visit Bran. Even then the conversation was coldly, punctiliously, polite.
Connavar found it all impossible to understand, even though he had heard, from the kitchen, the last angry words between Ruathain and Meria. But they were just words, he thought. Words were merely noisy breaths. Surely they alone could not cause such damage.
A year after the separation he finally spoke to an outsider concerning the problem. Conn had become close to the foreigner, Banouin. The dark-haired, olive-skinned merchant had arrived in Rigante lands twelve years before, bringing with him a baggage train of ponies bearing dyed cloths, embroidered shirts, spices and salt. His goods were high quality and rightly prized. He had spent three months among the Rigante, buying bronze and silver ornaments from the metalworker, Gariapha, and quality hides from the Long Laird’s curious black and white cattle. These hides, he said, would be highly desired back in his own distant land of Turgony. When he came for the second year he paid for a house to be built, and spent the winter and spring among the people, a practice he continued ever since. In his third year he took to wearing the plaid leggings and long blue shirt tunic of the Northern Rigante. No-one took offence, for such was Banouin’s charm that all knew he wore the attire as a mark of respect.
For his own part Banouin had also taken a liking to the fierce, strange-eyed Connavar. They had met one evening three years before, when Conn had climbed through the window of the small warehouse-stable where Banouin kept his goods. Unknown to the eight-year-old, the little merchant had seen him creeping through the long grass, and had watched him scale the outside wall and ease himself through the window. This took some nerve, since, with the permission of the village council, Banouin always told the children he was a wizard, who would turn any young thief into a toad. The tale was widely believed and the youngsters of Three Streams generally steered clear of Banouin’s house.
Intrigued, Banouin had moved silently into the warehouse, where he saw Conn delving into the saddle packs stacked against the far wall. Banouin waited in the shadows. At last Conn came to the pack containing ornate weapons, and drew out a bronze dagger with a hilt of hand-worked silver, crafted by Gariapha. Slashing the air, the boy began to move through a mock fight, twirling and leaping as if surrounded by enemies.
At last he stopped, then walked to the window and waved the blade in the air. This last move surprised Banouin, as did the next. Rather than climb out and make off with the dagger the boy came back and returned the blade to the pack.
‘Why did you not steal it?’ asked Banouin, his voice echoing in the rafters.