Chapter 9
Whelon stumbled as the two boys sparred with makeshift swords. Lorcan struck hard against the wooden branch, showing his friend no mercy.
Connor corrected Whelon’s stance. ‘Keep your eyes on Lorcan. Never look down, for that will be the last time you lay eyes upon an enemy. You’ll find his sword in your belly.’
Whelon wore a wooden staff attached to the stump on his right leg. Though it was serviceable, Connor questioned the wisdom of sharing his knowledge with the child. Whelon had not the ability to join in a battle. His dream of becoming a fighter could never come true.
And yet, Connor found satisfaction in teaching the boy. He saw the fierce pride upon Whelon’s face, the need to prove his skills. It was like watching himself as a child.
With both hands, Whelon spun and struck Lorcan’s branch from the side. The blow caught Lorcan unawares, and he sprawled to the ground.
A smile spread over Whelon’s face, and he reached down to help his friend up.
‘Well done,’ Connor said.
The boys sparred again, emitting loud battle cries. The training had transformed into play. Connor allowed the boys to continue their game. His hands ached from the previous day’s training, more blisters swelling upon his palms. He had not spoken of it to Aileen after last night.
He picked up a branch, using his foot as leverage to snap off the extra twigs. The fingers of his right hand still would not move to his liking, forcing him to use the left. Though he had trained to fight with his weaker hand, he far preferred the right hand.
Connor forced the fingers around the branch, gritting his teeth to control the movement. Tendons tightened and stretched, his wrist shaking while he attempted to move the branch in the manner of a sword.
While he engaged in the exercises, he thought of Aileen once more. She had wanted to tell him something about Bealtaine, and he’d refused to hear it. It reminded him of the morning afterwards, when he’d found Lianna bare-breasted in Tómas’s arms. It was a moment of humiliation he’d never forgotten, and he had no desire to dredge up the past.
Now, it was Deirdre Ó Banníon who evoked his wrath. Were she a man, he’d have challenged her for offering such lies to her father.
Connor swung the branch at a tree, shattering the wood. The impact sent a blast of pain through his wrist and arm, and he gasped. The boys turned from their play, but he shook his head so as not to concern them.
He knew not if they’d asked permission to come, and it was time for them to join the preparations for theaenach. Their foster-parents would be searching for them. Connor sent them off, promising another lesson in a few days’ time.
‘You are coming to theaenach, aren’t you?’ Whelon asked, his young eyes hopeful.
‘Tá. But I’ll not compete in the games.’
‘No one expects you to,’ Lorcan remarked, releasing another shrill battle cry. He walked alongside Whelon, content to move at his friend’s slower pace.
Connor examined his right hand when the boys had gone. Such an act of foolishness, to think he could wield a sword in the way he had always done. The weakened muscles refused to yield to his bidding. Upon his wrist and palm, he studied the scars of past fights. Nicks and slashes covered both sides. Each was a reminder not to lose his attention upon the fight. Some were earned in battle, those more valued than the others. He had lived, while others died at his hand.
As he passed through the forest, pushing his way past the smaller branches, his thoughts moved to the Ó Banníons. Today the Brehon courts would hear the case and decide upon a judgement.
Seamus Ó Duinne believed he should accept thecorpdíreand settle the matter. Connor preferred an eye for an eye. Or hands for hands, as it were. He increased his gait, sprinting across the field toward Aileen’s hut. The exercise satisfied his longing to exert every last muscle.
When he reached Aileen’s hut, he saw her standing outside with her animals. In the coolness of the fading dawn, the sky held clouds the dark colour of fleece. There would be rain this day.
He slowed at the apex of the hill, watching her. Dark strands of her hair streamed in the morning wind, while she fed the animals. She poured a bucket of grain into a small trough, guiding his own horse’s mouth into it. Her hands moved over the animal’s skin, and he froze at the sight. As if she sensed his presence, she turned to him.
Something within him halted. For over two moons, he’d dwelled with this woman and he hadn’t seen how breathtaking she was. With clear skin and sage eyes that saw through him, there was something ethereal about her.
Her blue woollen overdress accentuated the creamy whiteléinebeneath, her feet bare. As he strode towards her, she smiled in greeting, but the smile did not quite reach her eyes.
‘What did you want to tell me about Bealtaine?’ he asked.
The bucket fell from her hands, the grain spilling upon the ground. A startled look overcame her, a fear that she masked quickly. ‘You would not believe me if I told you. It does not matter now. I suppose some things are better left in the past.’
He didn’t believe her. Her rushed speech, and the way her gaze would not meet his, made him suspicious.
He leaned down and righted the bucket, his fingers struggling to curve around the wood. Though he tried to make his hands grasp the handle, he was forced to lift it with his forearm.
‘It bothers you. What happened that night?’ He’d been so absorbed in his own anger that day, he recalled seeing her pale, frightened face that morn. Had someone forced her? A darkness curled in his stomach at the thought of someone harming Aileen.
