“Nay.” Save his life had fallen to pieces. Liadan did not want to entertain that thought either. She did not want to sympathize with Ardahl or his mother.
Her brother lay dead.
But who could fail to feel something for this woman? She looked as lost as Liadan felt.
“Here, sit down.” Liadan coaxed Maeve onto a rug beside the cold hearth. “Are ye unwell? Shall I fetch Master Dathi?”
Maeve shook her head violently. “Nay. I wish to see no one. No one but my son. And that is forbidden.” Her eyes flooded with tears. “He is my son no more.”
A hard fate, and no mistake. It seemed cruel to punish this woman for her son’s misdeeds. But did they not all suffer?
“When is the last time ye took something to eat?”
“I do not remember.”
“Mistress MacCormac, ’twill do no good whatever for ye to neglect yourself.”
“Good?” The hazel eyes sought hers. “There is naught of good anymore. Not since—”
“Aye, but—”
“I have no reason left to live. Once I lived for my husband. He was braw and strong. So, so handsome. He was the first charioteer of the tribe when we wed.”
“Indeed.” Liadan searched around the untidy hearth for a pot of water, or ale, but found naught that had not been spilled or contaminated with ash.
“It did no’ take long for us to have a wee daughter. In fact, she came early because we had no’ waited to be handfasted—she lived but thirty days. My Cormac said there would be many others. There were, but I lost them one after t’other. Did ye know Ardahl had an older brother?”
Liadan stood now watching the woman. “I did not.”
“He had just five years when he died. As bonny a lad as ye could find. He took sick in the winter and was gone before we knew it. That was just before Ardahl was born. Ardahl thrived.” Maeve began to weep. “I should ha’ known I would lose him too.”
Liadan cursed under her breath. Another weeping mother! Another broken heart.
“Whist, now.” She hunkered down in front of the woman, who wept into her hands. She did not want to sympathize, nay. Yet she would need to be made of stone did she not. “Ye have no’ lost your son. He is alive and well.” Unlike Conall.
“As good as dead,” Maeve sobbed bitterly. “I have held so many bairns in my arms, only to lose them.”
“No’ as good as dead,” Liadan told her forcefully. “He still walks. He still breathes. He still possesses a beating heart.”
Maeve disregarded this. “After I lost my Cormac, him brought home from battle in his own chariot, Ardahl became my reason for living.”
“And he is, still. Listen to me. ’Tis Ardahl who sent me here. Worrying for ye, he is. How might I go back and tell him I found ye in this state? Come, let us wash your face and hands. I will make up the fire. Have ye any clean clothing?”
Laying her own grief aside for the moment, Liadan tended Ardahl’s mother as she might a child. Raked out the fire. Found the ingredients for a sparse meal. Moved about the hut tidying the mess.
Och, but what was she to tell Ardahl when he returned from training? That his fears had been proved true and his mam coped no better than hers?
Could she place such an additional burden on him? Aye, she should. He had killed Conall, taken his brightness from them.
He deserved this and more.
She should walk away out of here. Leave Maeve to her hard fate.
Her mind more than half made up to it, she wound her shawl about her head and prepared to leave. As she turned away from the fire, Maeve reached out and snagged her arm.
“He would not do such a thing, ye know. This terrible deed.”
“Eh?”
