Sometimes, in the night, he would hear Meria weeping softly, trying to muffle the sound in the thick, embroidered pillow on the bed Ruathain had crafted. It was a mystery to Connavar. All his life he had watched Meria being cool towards her husband, apparently uncaring. Now she grieved as if a child had died. Yet with all that grief she could not bring herself to take a deep breath and acknowledge she was wrong.
And the Big Man had changed. He was surly now, and quick to anger. Connavar shivered when he recalled the fight with Govannan’s father, Nanncumal.
Connavar had been walking with Ruathain and Braefar when Nanncumal stepped out from his smithy. There was no love lost between the men, for it had been Nanncumal who had caused the trouble in the first place, telling Govannan about the death of Conn’s father. The smith was a large man, powerful in the shoulder, with massive biceps.
‘You keep that boy of yours away from my smithy,’ he said, pointing to Connavar.
Ruathain looked at the man. ‘And why should I do that?’
‘He’s a thief, that’s why. Stole some nails from my rack.’
‘That’s a lie!’ said Conn, outraged. Clenching his fists he had stepped towards the smith, but Ruathain drew him back.
Nanncumal sneered at him, then spoke again. ‘They were gone after you were here, sniffing around my daughter. That’s good enough for me. Now you keep the boy away,’ he said, swinging towards Ruathain. ‘If I catch him here again I’ll split his ears.’
‘You’ll split his ears?’ repeated Ruathain, his voice terribly calm. ‘You’d threaten my son while I stand before you? You are not a wise man, Nanncumal.’
‘He’s not your son,’ snapped the smith. ‘He’s the get of a coward!’
Ruathain took one step forward. Nanncumal threw up his left arm to defend himself, but the blow was too fast, a heavy clubbing right hand that took the smith on the left cheek, splitting the skin. Nanncumal was hurled from his feet, to smash head first into the fence beside the smithy. The central rail snapped under the impact. The smith struggled to rise then slumped to the hard-packed ground. Several men came running to watch the fight, but it was over. Ruathain stepped in close to the fallen man, turning him with his boot. The smith’s eyes were open. Ruathain spoke again, his voice still flat and cold.
‘Connavar’s father rode with me to the battle, and fought beside me all day. You, however, were not there, I recall. You had a bellyache, or some such. In fact, smith, I have never seen you in battle. Do not be so swift to call others a coward. The next time you do I will seek you out again.’
Connavar shivered with both pleasure and pain at the memory. Nanncumal had deserved it. He knew Conn had stolen nothing. His real grievance was Conn’s friendship with his daughter, Arian. Conn’s good humour faded. She had been avoiding him since the fight, and he missed her company, her quick smile and the scent of her golden hair. Closing his eyes he recalled the day of the chase, early in the spring. Arian, her sister Gwydia, and several of the other settlement girls had been gathering flowers on the edge of the western wood. Connavar had been out walking and had come upon them. Arian, holding the hem of her yellow dress above her knees, was wading in a fast-moving, shallow stream. Connavar had called out a greeting. Leaning down she sent a splash of water over him. Laughing he had waded after her, but she eluded him, crossing the stream and running into the woods. Conn had followed, and caught her round the waist. They fell together in the soft undergrowth.
‘Why did you splash me?’ he asked.
‘To cool the fire in your eyes,’ she told him. His right arm was resting across her, his hand on her slim waist. He glanced down at her bare legs. Sunlight was dappling the fair skin. Suddenly his throat was tight, and he could feel his heart beating wildly. He looked into her blue eyes. The pupils were large, and he could see himself reflected there, as if he floated within her. He felt as if he was slowly falling through water, and before he could resist the impulse he was kissing her. Arian’s mouth was warm. Her tongue touched his lips. Connavar groaned. His hand slid down to her thigh. Suddenly she struggled free, and rolled away from him. Sitting up she pushed her hands through her long, blond hair. ‘I see the water did not cool you enough,’ she said. Conn could scarcely speak. She giggled suddenly and put her hand over her mouth. Conn followed her gaze and, glancing down, saw the embarrassing bulge in his trews. Blushing, he rolled to his knees, then struggled to stand. Arian ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. ‘Do not be angry with me,’ she said, mistaking the blush of shame for a more violent emotion. Conn drew her close.