‘I am not angry,’ he said. ‘I love you. Next year, at the Feast of Samain, I will speak with your father. We will be wed.’
Pulling away from him, she smiled. ‘Perhaps I will agree,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I won’t.’
Conn did not know what to say, but his eyes narrowed. ‘Now you are getting angry,’ said Arian gaily, stepping in close and stroking his face. He tried to grab her but she spun away, then ran back to the other girls.
Sitting high in the tree Conn recalled the heat from the skin of her thigh. Discomfort flared in him.
A movement to the south caught his eye. A line of ponies was moving down the far slope. Conn’s heart leapt. Banouin was back!
Swiftly he scrambled down the tree, dropping to the ground and setting off towards Banouin’s house. He heard the hooves of the pack ponies on the last wooden bridge, and called out to the Foreigner.
Banouin saw him and grinned. The Foreigner seemed smaller and his short cropped dark hair was flecked with silver. He was old, Conn knew, close to fifty. But he was still fit and strong. The Foreigner dismounted. The fifteen-year-old was now several inches taller than the man. ‘How goes it with you, Connavar?’ Banouin asked.
‘Banias tol var,’ answered the boy. Banouin clapped his hands.
‘That is good, Conn. You remembered.’
‘I do not forget anything,’ answered the young man, seriously. ‘It is good to see you again. Let me help you unload the ponies. Then you can tell me about your travels.’
Banouin moved to his warehouse and unlatched the door. Together he and Connavar removed the packs, carried them inside, then turned the ponies loose in the paddock field beyond.
Banouin’s house was, like all the Rigante dwellings, built entirely of wood. But he had laid a mosaic stone floor in the main living room, and there were three couches there, and no chairs. The room was clean and free of dust.
‘I see you have been looking after my home,’ said Banouin. ‘I thank you for that.’
‘I shall fetch some food,’ said Conn, rising and moving towards the door.
Banouin was about to protest, but the youngster was gone, running across the field back towards his own home a quarter-mile distant. He returned with a canvas sack containing a large portion of meat pie, several ripe apples, a round of cheese wrapped in muslin, a loaf of fresh bread and a pottery jar full of rich, salted butter.
After they had eaten, Banouin lit two lamps and stretched out upon the sofa. ‘What I really miss from my homeland,’ he said, ‘is a warm, scented bath at the end of a journey. Every town this size would have a bathhouse, and many of the houses would boast their own bathrooms.’
‘Do your people bath a lot?’asked Connavar.
‘Every day.’
‘Why? Do they smell bad?’
‘If they don’t bathe they smell foul.’
‘How unfortunate for them,’ said Connavar.
Banouin chuckled. ‘It is a strange thing. The more you bathe, the more you need to. I had a bath two months ago, in Turgony. It was wonderful. Then I set off on the road home. Within three days I stank. After ten I could almost not bear my own company. Then the odour faded away.’ Banouin stood up, removed his long coat and threw it over a couch. Connavar saw the bloodied bandage on his upper arm.
‘How did you get the wound?’ he asked.
‘Four days ago I was accosted by robbers. Three Norvii outcasts. One of them managed to scratch me with his knife. It is not a serious wound.’
‘Did you kill them?’
‘No, you bloodthirsty young savage. I broke the knifeman’s arm. Then they ran away.’
‘You should have killed them. They may lie in wait for you again next spring.’
‘If they do I shall bear your advice in mind. Now tell me what’s been happening in Three Streams.’
‘Braefar won the Solstice Race two weeks ago. There isn’t a happier lad in the land now,’ said Conn. ‘He’s been strutting around like a gamecock.’
‘What about you?’
‘I came second.’
Banouin sat back. He could see the gleam of amusement in Conn’s eyes and guessed there was more to the tale. ‘What about Govannan? I thought he was the fastest runner among you youngsters.’