‘Did he run?’ asked the boy. Everything in the child’s face begged for the great, comforting lie.
And Ruathain could not give him that gift. Honour was everything to him. Yet he knew the young viewed the world with all the certainty born of inexperience. A man was either a hero or a coward. There were no shades of grey. He made one last attempt to still Connavar’s concerns. ‘Listen to me, the raiders were beaten – but they launched a last charge. It was almost dusk. We had won. But they almost broke through. Five of them rushed at your father and me. He was killed there. Let that be an end to it. I lost a friend. You lost a father.’
But Conn would not be shaken. ‘Where was his wound?’ he asked.
‘You are concentrating on the wrong things, Conn. He was a fine, brave and noble man. For one moment only he … knew panic. Do not judge him harshly for that. When the battle was over I sat with him. His last words were of you and your mother. He wanted so much to see you grow. And he would have been proud, for you are a strong boy.’
‘No enemy will ever see my back,’ said Connavar. ‘I will not run.’
‘Do not be stupid,’ snapped Ruathain. ‘I have run. A good warrior knows when to stand and fight, and when to withdraw to fight another day. There is no shame in it.’
‘No shame,’ repeated Connavar. ‘Who was guarding your back when my father ran?’
Ruathain said nothing. Connavar pushed himself to his feet. ‘Where are you going?’asked the swordsman.
‘To find Govannan. I must apologize to him.’
‘You have nothing to apologize for.’
Connavar shook his head. ‘He was right. My father was a coward.’
The boy stalked away. Ruathain swore softly. Braefar came over to him. ‘Is he still angry?’ he asked.
‘Angry and hurt,’ agreed Ruathain.
‘I think he might have beaten them all. He didn’t need me at all.’
‘Aye, he’s strong,’ said his father. ‘How are you feeling, Wing?’ he continued, using the abbreviation of Braefar’s soul-name, Wing over Water.
‘Better. Govannan has hard knees.’ Braefar grinned. ‘It was worth the blow to see Conn knock him down. He is not afraid of anything – or anyone.’
Yes he is, thought Ruathain, sadly. He’s afraid of being like his father.
He gazed up at the blue sky. ‘I told you to stay close to me,’ he said, sadly.
‘What did you say, Father?’ asked the bemused Braefar.
‘I was talking to an old friend. Come, let’s go home.’
Lifting Braefar he settled him on the pony then led the beast down the hillside. I could have lied to him, he thought, told him his father had not run. But more than twenty of the Three Streams men had seen it. At some time the story was bound to have surfaced. Meria would be furious, of course. She was fiercely protective of Conn, and loved him more than either of her sons by Ruathain.
And certainly more than she loves me!
The thought had leapt unbidden to his mind, like a poisoned arrow shot from ambush.
They had wed a mere four months after the battle. Not for love. He had known that. But because she believed that Connavar would need a strong father to teach him the skills of the Rigante. Ruathain had been certain that she would come to love him, if he treated her with kindness and compassion. At times he even thought that he could detect in her a genuine affection for him. The truth, however, was that no matter how hard he tried, there always remained a distance between them that he could not cross.
One night, at the Feast of Samain, when Conn was a year old, Ruathain had spoken to his mother, Pallae, about the problem. His father had been dead for two years, and Ruathain was sitting beneath the vast branches of Eldest Tree, Pallae beside him. All around them the people of the settlement were drinking, feasting and dancing. Ruathain himself was a little drunk. He would not have raised the subject had he been sober. His mother, a tall and dignified woman, who, despite her iron-grey hair, retained an almost ethereal beauty, listened in silence. ‘Have you ever done anything to offend her?’ Pallae asked him.