“More than half hail from Ireland. The rest are from Scotland and Wales, and two from Brittany that we picked up along the way. Our man Modur, a Welshman, often sings for us on a march, but a tune o’ our own would be finer still.”
Finlay bowed his head. “I will be honored to provide ye one.”
“Come watch us drill in the morning so ye may get a feel for who we are. The bards I knew back home in Ireland went by feel more than aught else.”
“As do I.” A curious sort of man, this. All warrior, bristling with vital energy, yet with a Celt’s understanding. Even after O’Hanlon walked off, Finlay stood where he was, thinking.
It had been a long while since he’d seen a warrior troop in training. A long while, indeed.
Chapter Seven
No question butFinlay shared his borrowed chamber with a spirit that night. The fact that it was a borrowed chamber and that Mistress Katrin might well have lent it to him with some reluctance could not explain the conviction that he was not alone.
The feeling came stealing over him as soon as he doused the light and stretched out in the bed. Awareness of a presence, one that moved very softly around the room. One he could almost hear breathing.
A mouse? Ghosts did not breathe.
It might well be Mistress Katrin’s brother wondering why Finlay intruded here. Only the presence did not feel hostile, as if it wanted him gone or even as if it noticed him.
It was justthere.
Still and all, it took him a while to drop off to sleep. And when he did, he dreamed.
A familiar dream, this, and one he’d inhabited before. One that in fact echoed the first song he’d sung in Murtray’s hall that night.
He rode in a chariot with a sword clutched fast in his hand.
The air all around him was alive with sound and color—the glitter of light on the edge of a shield, the green of the turf that covered the hills around him. The rattle of wheels and the voices of men.
He was not alone in the chariot. A young man stood fast beside him with the reins in his hands, controlling the ponies. He had fair hair caught up in a number of plaits, and the energy that came off him…
He was excited, aye, and edgy, for they rode into battle. But for all that,his presence provided pure comfort.
Finlay woke on his back in the bed, breathing hard.
Och, by heaven, that had been too real. So much so that, back in the dark chamber, his senses swam. His upheaval was not helped by the sudden knowledge that the energy of the young man who had ridden in the cart with him was the same as that here in this room.
He swore to himself, sat up in the bed, and whispered, “Conall?”
But how could Conall be here? He had lived years away in Ireland. His bones lay beneath the green sod of that isle. Aye, indeed, Finlay knew better than anyone that ghosts could appear. But why here and now?
He said again, more strongly this time, “Conall?” No reply, but the air of the room seemed to ripple around him.
People came and went in life—that, too, Finlay had learned. They brought comfort and left sorrow. They brought love.
“If ye be here,” he whispered, “then help me. I do no’ ken if, even wi’ the aid o’ the tales and the songs, she will see me for who I am.”
Still no reply. Finlay propped himself against the bolsters, eyes wide, and listened to the silence. He did not sleep again.
*
Despite how earlyFinlay rose, the Gallowglass were up and at work ahead of him, making a clatter at their practice in the field next to the bailey. The hall was still being cleared of last night’s supper, so, following the racket, Finlay went out to watch.
The day promised rain, a bank of low clouds spreading in from the sea. He was not the only one drawn by the spectacle in the field. Most those already out of their beds stood around in clusters. Finlay saw Chief MacMurtray among them, arrested like everyone else.
Aye, so, and the troop of men made an impressive sight there against the lush green turf. No wonder they carried such a fiercereputation and commanded so much respect.
They had broken up into groups and had at each other with such violence that one might be forgiven for mistaking it for true battle. Narrowing his eyes, Finlay saw it for a controlled violence, a kind of practiced fury almost beautiful to behold.
