‘I am sick of being weak,’ said Conn.
‘You are weak because you have been sick. As I said, look for a small improvement every day. When you walk mark the spot where you feel that you cannot go on. The following day seek to go ten paces past it.’
Conn felt calmer as they spoke. ‘Have you ever been wounded?’ he asked.
‘Once, when I was a year older than you. Not as badly. I took a spear in the right shoulder. I thought my strength would never return. But it did. Trust me, Connavar, you will be stronger than you were before. Now let us walk for a while.’
It was a bright clear day, but in the distance rain clouds were hovering over Caer Druagh. Ruathain led the youth up a short hill, stopping several times to allow him to catch his breath. At the top the two of them sat down and stared out over the valley. Ruathain’s herds were grazing and Conn could see Arbonacast sitting his pony on the far slope.
‘I do not see Mentha,’ said Conn. ‘I thought he survived the winter.’
‘He did,’ said Ruathain. ‘And a young bull challenged him for mastery of the herd. He and Mentha fought for several hours.’ Ruathain gave a sad smile. ‘Mentha finally beat him. It was his last moment of triumph. We found him the following morning. His heart had given out in the night.’
‘That is sad,’ said Conn. ‘He was a bonny bull.’
‘Aye, he was. But he died as a king, undefeated, unbowed.’
‘Do you think it mattered to him?’
Ruathain shrugged. ‘I like to think so. How are you feeling?’
‘I’m having trouble getting my breath.’
‘The lung worries me. Tomorrow, when I take her provisions, you will ride with me to see Vorna.’
Conn glanced at the Big Man. Every two days throughout the winter Ruathain had travelled to Vorna’s cave, carrying provisions. At first he had ridden out, but when the winter was at its coldest he had trudged in snowshoes through the drifts. Once there he had gathered wood for her, and made sure she was safe. ‘You have been good to her,’ said Conn. ‘I thank you for it.’
‘A man stands by his friends,’ said Ruathain. ‘No matter what. You understand this better than most.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Have I told you how proud you made me?’
Conn laughed aloud. ‘Only every day.’
‘It cannot be said often enough. Now let us walk back. Take your time.’
As they made their slow way across the fields Conn saw a thin plume of smoke rising from the chimney of Banouin’s house. The merchant had not returned for the winter, and this had depressed Conn, for he feared that the Norvii robbers had indeed lain in wait for him, and that he lay dead in some forest thicket. Ruathain saw him staring at the smoke.
‘The Foreigner arrived back last night,’ he said, ‘with twenty-five heavily laden ponies. Only the gods know how he brought them through the storm.’
For the first time that winter Conn forgot his weakness. ‘I feared he was dead.’
Ruathain shook his head. ‘He’d be a hard man to kill,’ he said, his expression suddenly grim. ‘He is far tougher than he looks. I hope all his people are not like him.’
‘Do you not like him?’ asked Conn, surprised at the Big Man’s mood change.
‘He is a foreigner, and his people make war on all their neighbours. Before you can go to war in a strange land you must first send out scouts to study the terrain. If his people ever cross the water and attack our land who do you think will have supplied them with maps?’
Conn was no fool, and the Big Man’s words struck home. Even so, he did not want to consider them. Banouin was a friend, and until he was proved to be a spy, Conn was willing to put aside any doubts about his actions. Yet the seed had been planted, and, in Banouin’s company, he found himself listening with even more care as the Foreigner told the stories of his travels.
‘Did you know,’ said Banouin, as they sat before his hearth drinking watered wine, ‘that the story of your fight with the bear has reached the southern coast?’