“You do?” Eachann asked. “How old is he?”
“He’ll be five just after midsummer.”
“I’m already five,” Eachann said proudly. “My birthday was on All Saints’ Day.”
Eoin’s gut stabbed; he hadn’t even known that.
“I should have guessed,” MacSorley said, laughter in his voice. “You are much bigger than Duncan.”
“I am?” Eachann couldn’t hide his surprise. “My grandfather said I had to eat more or I would never grow big and strong enough to be a warrior.”
“You can be whatever you want, Eachann,” Margaret interjected firmly. “You don’t have to be as tall as the captain to be a warrior—if that is what you want to be.”
From the way that Margaret hastened to respond, Eoin sensed the lad’s size was a tender spot. Was he small? Eoin didn’t have much experience with boys his age, but supposed he could be. Eachann was built like his brother Donald. Donald was two years older than Eoin, but Eoin had been a head taller than him by the time they were thirteen. Donald was lean and wiry, as opposed to muscular like Eoin and their eldest brother, Neil. It had bothered Donald, too, until he’d found his strength. Like MacSorley, his brother excelled at seafaring.
MacSorley must have picked up on the sore spot as well. “Your mother is right, lad. In fact, I even know a lass who can flip me on my backside. And she has... more than once,” he grumbled.
“She must have been a big lass,” Eachann said, clearly not sure whether to believe him.
MacSorley laughed. “I’m afraid not. She’s about Peter’s size.” He pointed to the youth, who was only a few inches over five feet and probably seven stone soaking wet.
“Now I know you’re jesting,” Eachann said.
“Her name is Cate and she’s betrothed to a friend of mine.” He paused. “At least they were betrothed until...” He waved it off. “No matter. She also happens to be the king’s daughter.”
“But the king’s daughter is in an English convent,” Eachann said.
“I think he means the king’s natural daughter,” Margaret said.
“You mean she’s a bastard?” Eachann asked.
Eoin’s mouth tightened. He didn’t need to turn to feel the boy’s gaze land on his back. Damn Dugald MacDowell to Hades!
“Eachann...” Margaret started.
But MacSorley only laughed. “Aye, I suppose she is. But I wouldn’t call her that if I were you, or she might put you onyourbackside.”
Eoin had heard about how Gregor MacGregor’s intended had been trained in warfare and had managed to flip the big, always-ready-with-a-jest Viking while practicing. The other Guardsmen had been needling MacSorley about it ever since. Eoin would have given a month’s wages to have seen it.
Tired of watching from afar while Hawk entertained his son, Eoin moved off the oars. He was going to see if Eachann wanted to help him with the navigation, when he heard MacSorley ask, “Would you like to hold the ropes for a while?”
“Me? Really? You mean it?”
Eoin quickly sat back down at the excitement in his son’s voice. Rough maps of the shoreline and a sun compass could hardly compete with holding the riggings.
He didn’t realize he was frowning until Margaret sat down beside him. “Your friend is amusing. He reminds me of someone, although I can’t think who.”
Eoin hid a smile, wondering how long it would take her to figure out it was herself.
She lowered her voice. “Eachann is scared. He isn’t deliberately trying to hurt you. He just doesn’t know what to say. Your friend MacSorley is easier—there is nothing at stake with him.”
Christ. Was he that easy to read? He didn’t bother denying it. “I tried talking to him this morning before we left, but he couldn’t seem to get away quickly enough.”
“What did you talk about?”
He shrugged. “Nothing in particular. I asked if he had a favorite weapon he liked to practice with and mentioned that I was looking forward to his training when we arrived at Kerrera.”
She didn’t say anything.
