Lunging forward, he tried to use the makeshift sword. A surge of aching fire ripped through the unused muscles, but he forced himself to continue.
He had tried to bring Trahern’s sword, but he lacked the strength to drag it from the sick hut. Rather than damage the blade, he had left it behind. He would spend the first few days rebuilding his unsteady grip.
Though the branch felt awkward in his left hand, at least he could grasp it. When he tried to transfer the limb to his right palm, the branch clattered to the ground.
Frustration and doubts undermined his confidence. At last, he sat down against the base of an oak, his hands raw with the effort of fighting. He wiped the sweat from his brow, noticing the trickle of blood from his palms. Aileen would have to treat the blisters.
The thought of her sobered him. He hadn’t meant to voice his opinion aloud. She did possess great skills as a healer, but it wasn’t enough for him.
He’d wanted a miracle. When God had not granted him that boon, he had lashed out at the one person who had tried to help him. He regretted his words, but they were true. He did question her skills, her experience. If she were older, would he have more strength in his hands?
A soft crackle and thump drew his attention. He reached for the branch, but relaxed when he saw it was the boy he’d met earlier. Whelon, he remembered.
‘What do you want?’ Connor asked.
The boy used a pair of crutches to move forward, the motion rustling the leaves. He studied Connor and his gaze fell upon the stout limb. ‘What happened to your sword?’
Connor did not wish to admit his inability to bring Trahern’s blade from the hut. Instead, he told a version of the truth. ‘It was stolen from me. By the same men who crushed my hands.’
‘Normans?’
‘The Ó Banníons,’ Connor corrected.
Whelon extended his hand. ‘May I hold it?’
With his left hand, Connor raised the limb to the boy. It was the same height as the lad and as thick as his wrist. Whelon extended it, the ghost of a smile upon his face. ‘This is how you train?’
The boy’s intense longing humbled him. Why would the child dream of a warrior’s training when he lacked a leg to stand upon?
‘It is part of it.’
‘Teach me.’ Whelon offered the staff back to Connor.
He faltered, not wanting to offend the boy. ‘I do not think I can. Your leg—’
‘I have one good leg.’
‘You do. But a swordsman must have good balance and footwork to succeed in battle. I fear that—’
‘You are afraid I will die, if I try to learn the ways of the sword,’ Whelon guessed. ‘You needn’t fear. I can learn balance.’
‘There is also endurance and speed.’ Connor refused to cloak the truth. If the boy wanted training, he had to confront the reality of his skills.
‘Endurance I have,’ Whelon argued. ‘I travelled this far to meet you.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I saw you coming from Aileen’s cottage. And I watched you train once.’
Connor didn’t like the idea of being watched, much less by a lad with false notions of his abilities. He shook his head. ‘I cannot train you.’
Whelon looked as though he wanted to argue, but he held his tongue. A pitying expression crossed his face. ‘I thought you might understand. I suppose I was wrong.’
The boy did not look back, but used his crutches to hobble out of the forest. At the edge of the horizon, the sun rimmed the meadow with crimson and gold. Connor rose, stepping over the fallen branch. Whether a man lacked a leg or the full use of his hands, the outcome was the same. He had no right to be a warrior.
But with a phrase, he had killed the boy’s hopes. Did that make him any better than the Ó Banníons? Guilt balled inside him, and he wished he’d held his tongue. Whelon was a child, not a man. It wasn’t right to deny the boy a chance to try.
‘Whelon!’ he called out sharply, running to the edge of the woods. At the base of the hill, the boy turned his head.
