Her own worry, though, made it impossible to dissemble. She found it even harder to lie to Maeve. Yet she was not supposed to know what she knew. And she would never betray Ardahl’s trust.
So when Maeve eyed her and asked, “Where is he?” she merely shook her head. “Why, lass, have ye no’ prepared his water for washing as ye always do?”
Aye, she should have done that.
She said only, “I believe Ardahl will be delayed this morning.”I believe. I believe.
“Why?”
“That I cannot say. Pray, do not ask me.”
Maeve went silent. Too silent. They shared the space but did not speak.
Waiting was a torment. The day crept to life around them, and Liadan’s hands trembled at their work.
What was happening with Ardahl now? And now? Had he left the world, been driven from it on a shower of blood? Surely she would know. She would feel the loss, bone deep. Her heart would falter; the sun would dim.
Instead, all remained the same. Birds sang. Morning fires lifted smoke lazily into the air.
Did that mean he still lived?
Nay, but she had not felt it when Conall died. Nor her da.
Nor mam, for all that.
“Lass, why do ye no’ go and fetch some water?”
She went out with her ewer. Early as it was, folk hurried around, and a line of women had formed at the spring. Liadan sent her gaze everywhere.
And when it was her turn at the spring, she prayed.
Glorious Brigid, guard him. Guard him for me. Send him what help ye can.
*
At the edgeof the wood, there in the dark, Ardahl set his back against the trunk of a tree. It felt like stone at his back. Strong, as he would have to be strong.
Behind him he could hear Cathair and Dornach guiding the lad away. Dacha’s guard came at him. It had not taken them long to hack Granan to pieces.
Ardahl’s heart pounded up in his chest and his breath came quick. Here would he die. If only he could give the others time enough before he did.
The first of the guard reached him howling. The man had a good sword, which he whirled around his head before crashing it into Ardahl’s—Conall’s—blade. Not good enough. The force of his charge overbalanced him, and Ardahl slit his throat in a single blow.
The other men came with greater caution. Three of them together. More would be on their way, likely an unending stream of them. Ardahl could hear the voices, the shouts. The alarm given.
If he could take these three before the others arrived, he just might slip away.
He gutted the man on the left without delay, but the other two came at him as a team. A blade laid open his right arm. He felt no pain, but the loss of blood would weaken him.
Two snarling faces. The intent to kill showing in four eyes. His blade was quick, his arm still strong. Mayhap not the best warrior his clan had ever known, but good enough.
The man on the right went down, taken by a slash above the heart. He was holding them, giving the escaping party time.
All that mattered.
He now had a little bulwark of dead at his feet, inhibiting the approach of any enemy. But more men were rushing in even as he fought this last. He could see them, hear them.
He would die here after all.
