‘And Connavar?’
‘I will ask him if he wishes to undertake the mission. Perhaps he will refuse.’
‘A barrel of ale against a goblet of wine that he leaps at the chance.’
‘I’ll take that wager,’ said the Long Laird.
While the young men of Three Streams sought out Conn’s company, seeing only a hero, tall and strong, Meria – with a mother’s eyes – saw beyond the facade, and instinctively felt the terrible turmoil raging within him. Like Ruathain before her she tried to engage Parax in conversation. With the same results. He politely rebuffed her.
Meria knew there was little point in trying to question Conn herself. If he wanted to speak of his troubles he would do so. The problem nagged at her. It was not that Conn never smiled, just that when he did so the expression was swift and soon gone. She also noticed his mood change in the presence of his eleven-year-old brother, Bendegit Bran. He would soften and hug the golden-haired boy to him, then a darkness would descend upon him, and he would fall into silence. More often than not, after being with Bran, Conn would wander away by himself, returning to Ruathain’s old home, or riding up into the woods. This was especially puzzling to Meria.
More confusing still was his reaction when Bran cut himself while playing with an old knife. It was a shallow wound, requiring only a couple of stitches, but when Conn saw it his face became grey and his hands began to tremble.
Meria was at a loss to understand it.
She carried the problem to Eriatha. Every midweek afternoon they would meet and talk at Eriatha’s small house on the outskirts of Three Streams. The earth maiden listened as Meria talked of Conn and his curious behaviour.
‘Strange that he doesn’t talk about it,’ said Eriatha. ‘In my experience men love nothing better than to talk about themselves. Have you asked him?’
‘No,’ admitted Meria. ‘Ruathain has tried. He was always more comfortable talking to him than to me. Something happened across the water. Not a battle. Something else. Whatever, it is haunting him. He is not the same.’
‘I would think that war would change any man. All that blood and death.’
Meria shook her head. ‘Two weeks ago Ruathain took a wound to the shoulder. He was gashed by one of the bulls. Conn stitched the wound for him. There was no problem. But when Bran cut himself I thought Conn would pass out.’ Meria sighed. ‘I am losing sleep over this. I love him more than life, and I cannot help him.’
‘I will go to him,’ said Eriatha. ‘Perhaps he will talk to me.’
Meria smiled. ‘I was hoping you would say that. You will not say we have spoken?’
‘Of course not.’
The following evening Eriatha walked across the first bridge and crossed the field to Conn’s house. She tapped at the door. It was opened by an old man with a silver beard. Stepping aside he gestured for her to enter.
‘You have come to see Connavar?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘He’ll be back soon. He is at the forge, talking to the smith. May I fetch you something to drink?’
‘No.’
‘You are Eriatha, the earth maiden?’
‘I am.’
‘Did Conn send for you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you take a seat by the fire, lady. I was just about to stroll down to Pelain’s tavern and enjoy a jug or two. I hope you will not think me rude to leave you here alone.’
Eriatha could see an unfinished meal upon the table, and noted that Parax was not wearing boots or shoes. She was grateful for the lie, and the courtesy behind it.
‘No, I do not think you rude, friend. Go and enjoy yourself.’
Parax pulled on his boots, gathered up his cloak and walked out into the night. Eriatha sat by the fire and glanced around the room. The walls were bare of ornament, and there was only a single, threadbare rug. The floor was of hard-packed dirt, though someone had traced a pattern in it, of interlocking circles. She guessed it would have been Ruathain.
It was more than an hour before Connavar entered the house. Throwing his cloak across the back of a chair he moved towards the kitchen, then saw Eriatha. He showed no surprise. ‘Where is Parax?’ he asked.