‘He has decided to marry me,’ she said. ‘I worry about that. Even though it achieves nothing.’
‘And what will your decision be?’
‘I don’t know. I rode my father’s chariot once and the horses bolted. I just had to let them run themselves out.’
He smiled then. ‘You think Fiallach will run himself out?’
‘Perhaps. Who knows? Did you ask me to dance because you wanted to dance with me – or to annoy Fiallach?’
‘A little of both,’ he admitted.
‘Would you have asked me had Fiallach not attacked your brother?’
‘No.’
The answer annoyed her. ‘Well, you have achieved your purpose. So I will bid you goodnight.’
‘Wait!’ he said, as she rose. Connavar stood up. ‘I have just returned from a war – a hideous war.’ He fell silent for a moment. Then he looked into her eyes. ‘I have no time for personal pleasure. One day that war will flow across the water. I have to prepare.’
‘You have to prepare? Forgive me, I know you are a hero. Everyone says so. But you are not a chieftain. Why then should your being prepared make a difference?’
‘Because I will it so,’ he said. Just as he had when speaking with Fiallach, the tone of his voice was level, without hint of arrogance or false pride.
‘Then I will sleep sounder in my bed knowing that you are prepared,’ she told him. ‘Fiallach is also prepared. He talks of nothing but battles. I think he is rather looking forward to one.’
At last, to Tae’s delight, he looked discomfited. ‘Then he is doubly a fool. But I do not speak of battles. I speak of war. Battles are only a small part of the beast.’
‘Beast? You think war is a living thing?’
‘Aye, I do. I have seen it kill. I have seen it blacken the hearts of men. I have seen things to chill the soul.’ He shivered suddenly. ‘And I will not allow the beast to stain the mountains of Caer Druagh.’ Taking her hand he kissed her palm. ‘I am glad Fiallach pushed my brother. For being with you has gladdened my heart.’ Connavar returned with her to the feasting fire, bowed low, then strolled away.
Fiallach approached her. ‘You shamed me,’ he said. ‘That is no way for a betrothed woman to behave.’
‘I am not betrothed,’ she told him. ‘Not to you – not to anyone.’
His pale eyes narrowed. ‘We had an understanding.’
‘No. You had an understanding. Not once have you asked me to marry you.’
He smiled then. ‘Ah. You are angry with me. I understand. I reacted . . . hastily to the boy. We will put it right on the journey back home.’
The Long Laird glanced up at the trees as he rode back from the execution. The leaves were turning gold, and there was a chill in the air. His arthritic shoulder throbbed with pain, and the useless fingers of his left hand felt as if hot needles were being pushed into the skin. Beside him rode the white-robed Brother Solstice, and, ahead of the walking crowd, the two men travelled back to Old Oaks in silence.
When they reached the hall a young retainer took charge of the ponies. The Long Laird made straight for his sitting room, slumping down into a wide armchair close to the newly lit fire in the hearth. Brother Solstice lifted a flagon of uisge from a nearby shelf, and poured two generous measures into brightly painted cups. The Long Laird sipped the golden spirit and sighed.
‘We should just have killed him,’ he said. ‘Quietly and without fuss.’
Brother Solstice did not answer. The trial and subsequent drowning of Senecal had depressed him. He had known the young man all his life. Senecal was not a malicious man, merely stupid and easily led. Left to his own devices he would never have murdered his parents. Under the influence of Ferol, however, he had fallen into evil.
The hunters had found him back in his own cabin, naively waiting to operate the ferry. His only defence at the trial was that Ferol had killed his parents, and he was too frightened of Ferol to run away and report it. Brother Solstice believed him, but the law was iron, and Senecal felt the full fury of it. When sentence was passed he had cried out for mercy, and refused to walk to his death. Dragged clear of the hall he had broken free and thrown himself on the ground, wrapping his arms around a tethering post. Two guards prised loose his hold, and he had been tied and put in the back of a wagon. Senecal had wept and screamed constantly on the journey to the execution site.