A cold wind was blowing but Braefar could scarcely feel it through his anger. Look at them, he thought. Fools every one! Could they not see that what Connavar had shown was not courage but stupidity? Only an idiot would face a bear with a knife. Never had Braefar known such resentment. He had adjusted to being small and slight, to knowing he would never be as strong as Connavar, and though he had envied his brother’s skill and strength, he had never been jealous. Until now.
It was all so terribly unfair.
Ever since that dread day people seemed to talk of nothing but the fight with the beast, and how Conn had leapt at it. They praised the bravery of Govannan, who had run to his aid, first with a knife and then striking the beast with a rock.
‘And what did you do, Braefar?’ they asked him.
‘I had no weapon,’ he replied.
‘Ah,’ they said. Such a little sound, such a wealth of meaning.
Braefar knew what they were thinking. He was a coward. The other two boys had fought, while he merely stood, petrified.
The ponies were closer now. He saw Govannan run alongside Connavar and reach up to shake his hand. Men cheered loudly as he did so. The two heroes together again!
Braefar felt sick.
Ruathain had come to him on that first, terrible night, as Connavar lay close to death. He had asked him to describe the fight. Braefar had done so. ‘I couldn’t help them, Father. I had no weapon,’ he said.
His father patted his shoulder. ‘There was nothing you could have done, Wing. I am just glad you are alive.’
But Braefar had seen the disappointment in Ruathain’s eyes. It cut him like a knife.
Since then he had played out the fight with the bear many times in his mind. If he had run in, even to throw a stone, all would be different. Now, as he watched the hero’s ride home, he pictured himself sitting in the saddle, listening to the cheers of his people. If Banouin had given me such a knife, he thought, I too could have shared the applause.
The riders halted before the house. Ruathain helped Conn to the ground, then half carried him inside. The crowd drifted away.
Braefar climbed from the roof, in through the loft and down the wooden ladder to the ground floor. Conn was sitting at the long table, Meria fussing over him. His skin looked grey, his eyes red rimmed and tired. A horrible red scar disfigured his face, and his left arm was heavily bandaged. Ruathain was standing silently by the doorway.
‘Welcome home,’ said Braefar, lamely. Conn looked up and gave a tired smile.
‘Good to see you, Wing,’ he said.
‘You need rest,’ said Meria. ‘Come, let me help you to your bed.’ Conn did not resist. Pushing himself to his feet he allowed his mother to support him. Slowly they moved past Braefar.
Later, as Braefar climbed into his own bed alongside Conn’s he saw that his brother was awake.
‘I would have helped if I’d had a weapon,’ he said.
‘I know that, Wing.’
There was kindness in the voice, and understanding. Braefar hated him for it. And said the one thing he knew would cause the most pain.
‘I suppose you haven’t heard about Arian. She married Casta at the Feast of Samain.’
His brother groaned in the darkness. Instantly Braefar felt shame. ‘I’m sorry, Conn. I tried to tell you that she didn’t care for you.’
CHAPTER SIX
the WINTER WAS ONE OF THE FIERCEST IN RIGANTE MEMORY:
freezing blizzards, and temperatures so low at times that trees shattered as their sap froze. So much snow fell that huge drifts blocked the high passes, and the weight of fallen snow caved in the roof of Nanncumal’s forge. Ponies could not carry the feed to cattle trapped in the high valleys, and men wearing snowshoes struggled through the drifts, bales of hay upon their shoulders.
Ruathain and Arbonacast almost died trying to reach Bear Valley, where many of the herd had taken refuge. Caught out in a blizzard they had dug under the snow-buried branches of a tall pine, and crouched there huddled together throughout the deadly night. In the morning they had crawled clear, hefted their bales and located the herd. Two of the younger bulls had died. But old Mentha, indomitable and powerful as ever, had, with eight of his cows, found shelter in the lee of a cliff face.