He didn’t speak any greeting, though the sight of Áron sobered him. It was as if the man had guessed what he’d been doing with Morren only minutes ago.
Áron came to stand by the fire, his expression tight. “I heard you’re leaving us.”
“I’m going to Gall Tír,” he admitted. “To find the rest of them.”
“Are you taking her with you?”
He knew Áron meant Morren. “No. I was hoping you or some of the Ó Reilly’s would come with me.”
“I’ll go,” came a voice. Gunnar Dalrata stood at the entrance, and his expression furrowed when he saw Trahern’s soaked appearance. “What happened to you?”
“I went for a swim.”
Gunnar’s face lightened with amusement. “On purpose?” He paused in thought, then added, “I suppose if I spent the morning with Morren Ó Reilly, I would need a cold swim.” His eyes were teasing, and Trahern didn’t miss the way Áron’s anger heightened.
“Close your mouth,Lochlannach. You’re revealing your lack of brains again.”
As soon as Áron spoke the words, Gunnar’s arm shot out and took him by the throat. He gripped Áron hard and pressed him up against the wall of the hut. “I could squeeze yours out, Irishman.”
“Let him be.” Trahern moved beside Gunnar in a silent warning. Though Gunnar appeared unwilling, eventually he released Áron. The Norseman had a hot temper, one that could get him into trouble . . . or be useful under the right circumstances. It was a risk, but Gunnar had proven himself to be a strong fighter already.
“You can go with us,” Trahern said to Gunnar, “as long as you keep your aggression towards our enemies. I don’t need you practicing on the Ó Reilly’s.”
“I don’t know why you’d want one ofthemto go with us,“ Áron said, coughing and rubbing his throat. “He’d turn traitor at the first opportunity.”
Though once, he’d have agreed with Áron, Trahern couldn’t count Gunnar among the enemy. He ignored Áron’s prediction and asked again, “Are you coming with us?”
“I am, yes.” Áron rubbed at his throat again, coughing as he regarded the two men. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d want Gunnar to come along. Too much blood in common.”
“What do you mean?”
Áron moved towards the entrance. “Look at yourself, Trahern. You’re one of theLochlannach, whether you’ll admit it or not.”
“I’m a MacEgan. And there may be Norse blood on my grandfather’s side, but—“
“No.” Áron paused at the doorway, and Trahern saw that it had begun to rain. Water spattered against the doorway, and an earthen smell rose up from the ground. “You’re a bastard son.”
Before Trahern could seize him, Áron had already ducked outside into the rain.
Trahern knew he could pursue the man, but what good would it do? It was nothing but words, and he refused to let them bother him. There were enough MacEgans who had descended and intermarried among the Norsemen. He didn’t question who he was.
Yet he was still tempted to go after Áron and deny it, knocking some sense into the man. He glared at the rain, even knowing they were better off without him. When he turned around, Gunnar was staring at him.
“What?” Trahern demanded. “You don’t believe what he said, do you.”
“No.” Gunnar met his gaze, eye to eye. “Not really.”
“Then why in God’s name, are you staring at me?”
Gunnar gave a shrug. “Nothing, MacEgan.” Though the Lochlannach’s tone was casual, there was a glint in his eye. “It’s nothing that would concern you.”
But now, Trahern sensed that Gunnar was lying. And he didn’t know what to make of it.
Therainscamedownthat evening, soaking the ground and the fields. Morren had remained in her sodden clothes, for the monks had nothing for her to wear. Still, she was grateful for the bread and fresh meat. Brother Chrysoganus had blessed the meal, offering prayers for the rebuilding. The abbot had already returned with one of the other monks, leaving only two behind.
When the evening rain continued to pound, Chrysoganus attempted to entertain the folk with tales of crusaders who had gone to Jerusalem.
“They prayed to God for victory against the enemy,” Chrysoganus explained. “And many fell in battle, to join their Eternal Father.”
