“She seems to think”—Finlay’s heart pounded—“she is fit to go off and fight. Ye and I ken full well she is not.”
O’Hanlon eyed him slowly, up and down. “What d’ye ken o’ war?”
“Enough.”
“To be honest about it, harper, she is likely better prepared than most o’ the men who will march awa’ out o’ here under her father’s banner. Not like to my troops, of course. But these men are farmers. Fishers. Builders.” He hesitated. “Fodder for English swords. I hate to think how many will die. Mistress Katrin trained wi’ her brother before he died, and ’twas she who came to me asking to continue that training. She is no’ bad wi’ a sword.”
“Be that as it may, she is no’ prepared for wha’ is to come, the sights she will see. The sounds and the stench o’ battle. Ye maun talk to her, O’Hanlon. Convince her she is no’ fit to go. She will listen toye.”
“Will she? This is as stubborn a young woman as I have met. Stubborn and strong-willed.” O’Hanlon narrowed his eyes at Finlay. “What is her safety to ye, by any road?”
“Everything.”
That seemed to knock O’Hanlon back on his heels. He blinked before he said, “Youtalk to her, then.”
“I have. She will no’ listen.”
“Then I suggest ye let her go.”
It felt like a blow. “I canna.”
“Look. From all I have heard, this invasion—if such it may be called—will be an easy enough task and any battles should fall in our favor. The English are engaged in war, in France. How many men can they spare to beat back a horde o’ wild Scots? The way I understand it, King David—who’s been hard pressed by the French king to act—will put on a show and come back home again. It may no’ be a bad way for the lass to cut her teeth, be she so insistent upon it. Let her watch some o’ her clansmen die in the skirmishes. Learn what battle truly is and whether she be the warrior she thinks, before she returns home.”
“And if she does no’ return home?”
O’Hanlon did not answer.
Finlay tossed his head, a rare anger rising inside him. “Ye do no’ care, d’ye? War is naught to ye, or loss—”
“War is my way o’ life, harper, and my living. I have long since found a way to deal with it. I admire Mistress Katrin a great deal. She is a grand woman, one in a thousand. But her choices are hers to make. I would not try to tell her what to do. Will ye?”
Finlay thought of Bradana making her way through the wild Alban forest. Of Hulda facing down their enemies at sea. In an ordinary way, he would not. This was not ordinary.
“I am no’ asking ye to tell her what to do. Merely tak’ her aside and advise her, as someone for whom she has respect.”
Again, O’Hanlon hesitated. “Aye, so. If I have time.”
“Make time,” Finlay told him, warrior to warrior, if O’Hanlon but knew it.
O’Hanlon said nothing. Finlay turned away, only for the Gallowglass to catch him back.
“Harper—have ye ever held a sword?”
“Och, aye,” Finlay answered him softly. “Long, long ago.”
He remembered…
Mornings working hard in the cool mist, and long afternoons sweating in the sun. The all-too-familiar feel of a sword hilt in his hand. A body that near instinctively knew the back-and-forth steps of warfare’s dance.
All that lay deep inside Finlay still. Nay, he had not hefted more than a long knife since the age of fifteen or so, when he’d laid all that aside for the harp.
She had bidden him lay it aside.Begged for it.
Nay, not in this life. They had not known each other then, in this life. But she had asked.
And he would give up even what he was, for her sake. It stung a bit that she was not willing to do the same.
But—she did not know. She did not yet remember all they had been to each other. Och, aye, she had heard the stories. Like the others in her father’s hall, she had listened, rapt, to them.
