‘Are you in trouble?’
‘I do not believe so. I am merely confused.’ He told him about Meria’s visit. As he spoke he saw the young warrior’s expression harden, only to be replaced by a look of sadness. Varaconn cursed himself for a fool. Ruathain had asked Meria to marry him. He obviously loved her too! ‘I am sorry, Ru. I am an idiot,’ he said. ‘Forgive me for troubling you.’ Ruathain forced a smile, ‘Yes, you are an idiot. But you are also my friend. She obviously doesn’t want me, but I think she is in love with you. Go see her father.’
‘How could she love me?’
‘Damned if I know,’ said Ruathain, sadly. ‘Women are a mystery to me. When we were all children she always used to follow us around. You remember? We used to throw sticks at her, and shout for her to go away.’
‘I never threw sticks,’ said Varaconn.
‘Then maybe that’s why she loves you. Now go and make yourself look handsome. Cefir will not tolerate a shabby suitor. Best cloak and leggings.’
‘I couldn’t do that,’ said Varaconn.
But he had done it. The marriage took place three weeks later on the first day of summer, at the Feast of Beltine.
And so had followed the finest year of his life. Meria was a constant joy and Varaconn could scarce believe his good fortune. During the spring and following summer Varaconn caught and gentled sixty-two ponies. Sixteen of them had been of high quality, and most of these had been sold as cavalry mounts to the nobles who followed the Long Laird. The profit had been high, and Varaconn was determined to buy an iron sword, like the borrowed blade he now wore.
He patted the hilt, drawing strength from it. Even so, a touch of fear returned.
Tomorrow the Rigantes were to march in battle against the Sea Raiders, camped beyond the Seidh river. Varaconn hated violence, and was not skilled with sword or lance. What he had told Meria was true. When the Pannones charged he had stood frozen beside the powerful Ruathain. Yes, he had fought, swinging his bronze blade with the fury of terror, and the Pannones had fled. Ruathain had wounded three and killed one.
Varaconn had prayed never again to be drawn into a battle. That fear had turned to terror five days ago, when he had killed the raven. He was riding a wild pony, galloping it over the hills. As he topped a rise the raven had flown up from the long grass. Startled, the pony reared, lashing out with its hooves. The raven fell dead to the ground. Varaconn had been horrified. His birth geasa had prophesied he would die within a week of killing such a bird.
He had confided these fears to Ruathain. ‘The horse killed it,’ said Ruathain. ‘You have not broken your geasa. Do not concern yourself. Stay close by me, cousin, and you will live through the battle.’ But Varaconn was not comforted.
‘I was riding the pony. It was in my control.’
So great was Varaconn’s panic that, in the end, Ruathain drew his sword, which was of iron, and cunningly crafted. ‘Take this,’ he said. ‘It is blessed with four great Druid spells. No-one carrying it in battle will suffer death.’
Varaconn knew he should have refused at once. The blade was priceless. Most warriors had bronze weapons, but Ruathain had journeyed to the coast with his cattle and had returned to the Rigantes with this sword two years ago. The young men of the tribe would gather round him at the Feast of Samian and beg him to let them touch the grey blade. Varaconn felt the onset of shame, for he reached out and took the blade, perhaps condemning Ruathain to death in his place. He could not look his friend in the eye.
‘Vorna says your child will be a son,’ said Ruathain.
‘Aye, a son,’ agreed Varaconn, glad of the change of subject.
They sat in silence for a while, and the shame grew. Finally Varaconn hefted the sword, and offered it back to the warrior. ‘I cannot take it,’ he said.