‘I’ll loan you any coin you need. You know that, brother.’
‘Come the festival of Samhain, I’ll have no need of the land.’
‘This is about Flynn Ó Banníon, isn’t it? Trahern told me what he did to your hands.’
Connor inclined his head. ‘He claims I defiled his daughter, and thebrehonsbelieved her.’
‘Was evidence brought forth?’
‘False witnesses. The fines nullified each other.’
‘But you are not satisfied,’ Patrick guessed.
‘I want vengeance for what Ó Banníon’s men did to me. I intend to fight him.’
Patrick shook his head and sighed. ‘Did thebrehonsagree to it?’
‘They did.’
‘You should have accepted their first judgement.’
‘I’ll not pay for a woman’s lies, brother.’
‘I know it. But I also know you won’t let Flynn Ó Banníon live.’
Connor’s skin turned cold, but he met Patrick’s gaze. ‘He deserves death.’
‘You’re a fool,’ Patrick said. ‘Though I imagine I should do the same, were it me.’ A look of understanding passed between them.
Connor sat upon one of the chairs, absently rubbing his right fingers. He’d need to splint them this night. Aileen had warned him that rain would often cause them to ache, and she’d been right.
Stop thinking of her. You did the right thing, leaving her. And yet, anger tightened in his chest.
He needed to defeat Ó Banníon and start his life anew. He could buy more land and compete to become a chieftain or a king. Perhaps marry a chieftain’s daughter.
The thought evoked the image of Aileen in his bed, her warmth nestling close to his body. He shook it away.
‘Draw your sword,’ Patrick commanded, unsheathing his own blade. ‘I would see your skills.’
Connor gripped the weapon with his left hand. His strength had returned, but he knew his reflexes were weak.
Patrick swung his sword toward Connor’s head. With both hands, Connor blocked the blow. His brother showed no mercy as he lunged and sliced, testing for weaknesses. Connor defended each blow, but his wrists ached. Each strike rattled his arms, until it was only his training that kept him from dropping the sword.
Patrick swung the blade toward his middle, and Connor jerked out of the way.
‘Have you lost all your skills, then?’ his brother chided. ‘Or do you remember anything of your training?’
Connor’s blade struck Patrick’s. ‘I remember that you’re not as quick as I am.’
He became the aggressor, swinging his blade overhead to strike down upon Patrick. Blow after blow, circling and dodging, they sparred.
Then Patrick struck him unawares and Connor’s blade clattered to the wooden floor. He had not anticipated it, and the simple disarming shamed him.
‘You are not ready to face Flynn Ó Banníon.’
‘Not yet,’ Connor acceded. ‘But I will be.’
His brother’s assessing stare brooked no argument. ‘We’ve much to do. Lift your blade, and we’ll begin again.’
