‘You have children?’
‘No. Leia lost three bairns. That is how I know.’
‘You have told me what it was like to be young, my friend,’ said Conn. ‘How does it feel to be old?’
Maccus thought about it. Then he smiled. ‘Two days ago your pony kicked out, catching your shin. How is the bruise?’
‘It has gone.’
‘Had the pony kicked me I would have carried that bruise for maybe two weeks. When it is wet my shoulder aches and my arm becomes slow. In winter I find the wind cuts through me and I need to wear two shirts. In short, I am slower and more fragile than once I was. I think it is this fragility which affects me most. It eats at the confidence. Yes, I was kind to Arna. If I faced that Sea Wolf today he would cut me down in a matter of heartbeats. That is hard for me to admit, for, like Ruathain, I was First Swordsman.’
‘And now you are First Counsel.’
‘Aye. And I’ll admit it is a role I enjoy.’
Sound from the left caused Maccus to jerk his head. Pain flared from his aching shoulder. A black bear was moving slowly down the hillside towards a stream. It paused and glanced in their direction. Conn rose smoothly and drew his sword. Then he walked slowly out to stand some ten paces from the fire. Maccus drew his own blade and moved to stand beside him.
The bear watched them for a little while, then ambled on.
Maccus glanced at Connavar. The young man’s face was pale, but he had stood his ground.
‘Just as well he wasn’t hungry,’ said Maccus. ‘Otherwise he might have gone for us.’
‘That would have been the last mistake he ever made,’ said Connavar.
Tae had not settled well at the fortress settlement of Old Oaks. Conn was away for so much of the time, talking with the fifty-six clan chieftains, and minor lairds, who would, upon the retirement of the Long Laird, form the Lything. This was an ancient custom, whereby the chieftains could vote for a new laird. It had been instituted four hundred years before, following the overthrow of the last king, the legendary Gallis the Cruel. Conn was by no means certain of full support, and was doing his best to woo the waverers.
Those long periods when he was away were proving dull for Tae, even though she rode most days, and learned the mountain trails and narrow passes of the Druagh mountains. The land was exquisite, and she joyed in the rugged beauty of the highland, the craggy slopes, the towering peaks. But she was young, and newly wed, and she missed her husband terribly. More, she feared, than he missed her.
She did not doubt his love, but he was a man obsessed, and this frightened her a little. As did this return to the settlement where her mother had known such pain. Tae had many happy childhood memories of Old Oaks: of riding her pony alongside her father, playing with the other children on the slopes beyond the wooden walls. But the last memory was one of her mother screaming with anger and anguish and running from the Long Hall, tears streaming from her face. Tae, like her mother, had never forgiven the Long Laird for the hurt he caused, and she found his company difficult to take.
On her first morning here he had called her to his private rooms. She had stood quietly, and listened as he spoke of his own grief and his love for Llysona. But the words did not touch her, and she stared at the tired old man, waiting patiently for him to finish his confession so that she could return to Conn.
‘I never stopped loving you, lass. Or your mother,’ he said.
She wanted to ask if he had loved Llysona as he was rutting with his whore, but she refrained and said nothing. ‘It would be a help to know you forgave me,’ he said. This last statement was too much, and she felt anger melting her resolve to be polite.
‘But I do not,’ she told him. ‘You broke my mother’s heart, then sent her away. Had it not happened she would still be alive. Are we done here, for I wish to go riding with my husband.’