Tea stepped out of the fort and blinked as a stiff breeze feathered her face, blowing strands of hair in her eyes. She made her way across the muddy ground toward the squat dwellings beyond. It was the first time the sun had shown its face in many days, and Tea found herself smiling.
Beyond the walls of Dun Ringill, she spied the rippling waters of Loch Slapin. White crests, like the manes of galloping ponies, raced across the surface of the lake.
She wandered down through the settlement, walking amongst the stone roundhouses with sod roofs, making for one of the large homes in the center of the settlement. This was the home of Mael and her husband Maphan. They had taken in Donnel’s son, Talor, and were raising him as their own.
Mael was well overdue a visit, and Tea was looking forward to seeing how Luana and Donnel’s son was growing.
Waving to some of the folk of the fort, who knew her well by now, Tea felt a sense of belonging. She had never thought after leaving Dun Ardtreck that Dun Ringill could ever be her home—but how wrong she’d been. Now, four months on, this place felt more like home than Dun Ardtreck ever had. It was odd, the tricks that life played on you. She would never have imagined she could be happy here.
Tea reached Mael’s roundhouse and knocked on the timber door, calling out. “Mael, are you at home. It’s me—Tea.”
“Tea!” A woman’s voice called out from within. “Come in!”
Tea opened the door and ducked inside, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. Mael’s home was a lovely one. More spacious than most, the roundhouse had a dirt-packed floor and alcoves around the sides—a large one for husband and wife, and smaller ones for the children. A stone-lined fire pit burned in the center of the space.
Tea spied Mael’s daughter in one alcove, and Talor in the other. The two babes were both awake, gurgling and waving their arms around, their chubby hands grasping at the woolen hangings that Mael had suspended over them.
The aroma of mutton stew filled the home. An iron pot sat simmering over the fire pit.
Mael beamed. “I’m so glad you’ve visited.”
Tea smiled back, guilt trickling over her. She had been so taken up with Galan over the past days, she’d had little thought for anyone or anything else. She barely knew Mael, but she could see that the young woman possessed the same kindness and gentle spirit of her elder sister. She had that same gift for making one feel welcome in her presence.
“Please sit down.” Mael gestured to a stool by the hearth.
“Thank you.” Tea handed her the basket she had brought before taking a seat. “We baked some sweet buns, with walnuts and dried currants in them,” she said with a smile. “I thought you could do with a treat.”
Mael’s gaze shone. “That’s very kind of you. I was just about to warm some milk and honey. Would you like some?”
“Aye,” Tea replied. She watched Mael bustle about pouring fresh goat’s milk into a pan with a drizzle of heather honey. After warming it, she retrieved two wooden cups and filled them. Tea accepted her cup gratefully, wrapping her fingers around its warmth.
“How’s Talor?” she asked, glancing over at the gurgling infant. She could see that he had managed to tangle his fingers in the wool.
Mael smiled, her expression tender. “He’s a lovely wee lad. He has a gentle nature and hardly cries.” Mael’s smile faded then. “But sometimes I wonder if he isn’t a little sad … as if he knows what he has lost.”
Tea felt a pang of grief at these words. On a rational level, she knew that Talor was too young to grasp that he had lost his mother and father, but on another level, she too believed that the infant had been affected by the grief surrounding him.
“You can hold him, if you like,” Mael offered, putting down her cup.
“I’d like that,” Tea replied.
Mael went over and retrieved the little bundle, wrapped in seal fur. She brought him over and placed him in Tea’s arms. Tea’s gaze settled upon him, and she found herself smiling. He had a serene, beautiful face that was definitely a mix of both parents. He had his mother’s eyes already, you could see that, but you could also see the beautiful lines of Donnel’s face.
“He will be a heartbreaker, like his father,” Mael observed.
Noting the trace of bitterness in her voice, Tea glanced up. “Are you angry with Donnel?”
Mael sighed, looking away. “I don’t blame him for his grief, for I know Maphan would be the same if he lost me,” she admitted. “Yet I’m angry that he showed no interest in Talor before he left. If he meets his end in the south, it would be such a shame for his son.”
Tea was silent a moment. She agreed with Mael, but at the same time, being of a passionate disposition herself, she knew what grief could do to people and how it could change them. The pain she had seen in Donnel had been so raw it risked destroying him. Going away had been his only choice.
“He’ll be back,” she said, with more conviction than she actually felt.
Mael managed a wan smile and their gazes met across the fire. “For Talor’s sake, I hope so.”
Tea was introspective later as she left Mael’s roundhouse and wandered back through the village to the high walls surrounding the fort. She had enjoyed her visit, but her conversation with Mael had left her out of sorts.
Mention of Donnel made her wonder what was happening across the water to the south. Had the tribes gathered as planned? Had they attacked the wall? The Winged Isle sat far from the worries of the rest of the world, and yet she sensed the shadow of forces beyond their control, creeping toward the shores of her island.
The aroma of roasting goat caught Tea’s attention then, drawing her from her thoughts. It was nearing noon and the cooking smells wafted out of the fort, carried on a strong breeze.
Tea quickened her step; she had lingered a little too long at Mael’s. She made her way up the stone stairs and through the stone archway into the wide space beyond. Inside, women were making the final preparations for the noon meal.
Deri was tending the roast goat, basting the meat and adding the final seasonings, while two other women were setting out wheels of cheese and long loaves of fresh bread on the tables.
Tea crossed the space, her feet crunching on rushes, to Deri, before she placed her empty basket on the table.
“How is Mael and the lad?” Deri asked.
“Very well,” Tea replied with a smile. “Talor thrives—and is starting to look very much like his father.”
Deri grinned and was about to reply when her gaze shifted over Tea’s shoulder, to where Galan had entered the fort. Tea turned and smiled at him, waiting while he approached. As always, the sight of him made it difficult for her to think upon anything else.
Reaching Tea, Galan pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately, not caring who looked on. Tea returned his embrace, coiling her arms about his neck. They were both breathless when they parted.
“It’s a beautiful morning out,” Galan said, smiling into her eyes. “Finally some sun.”
“Aye,” Tea replied. “I’m looking forward to this afternoon’s ride. I thought we could return to Beinn na Caillich.” Their last trip to the Red Hill had been marred by her reaction to their kiss; Tea was eager to give them more pleasant memories of that breathtaking spot.
Galan’s smile widened. “Yes, we’ll do that.”
Warriors started entering the fort and taking their places for the noon meal. Soon they were all seated at the long tables and helping themselves to roast goat. The clatter of wooden dishes, spoons and iron knives caused a din, drowning out the rumble of conversation. Ruith had joined them today. Dressed in a high-necked tunic made of thick wool, she squeezed in at the end of a table, next to a heavy-set warrior who was taking up the space of two men.
Tea was just taking her seat upon the bench next to Galan when a man appeared in the entrance to the fort.
She did not recognize him.
Dressed in mud-splattered leathers, his dark hair wild, his foot wrapping caked in dirt, he looked as if he had run through peat bogs to reach them. Observing the man, Tea supposed he must belong to one of the many settlements around Dun Ringill, for the People of The Eagle occupied a number of villages upon the peninsula.
Galan spied the newcomer immediately, and rose to his feet. “Mund, welcome,” he called out, before his gaze narrowed. “What brings you here?”
The man staggered across the rushes toward them, clearly close to collapse. “Raiders!” Mund gasped, his breath ragged. He stopped before the chieftain’s table and bent double to recover his breath.
Conversation died, as did the thump and clatter of food being served at the long tables.
Galan went still. “Where?”
Mund looked up, his cheeks flushed, eyes wild. “North and west. They’ve attacked, pillaged and burned two villages already, and have started on the third.”
Gasps followed this news. Tea glanced across at Galan and saw his face had turned to stone. When he spoke, his voice was hard, emotionless. “Who are they?”
Mund’s gaze flicked from Galan to Tea then. Their gazes met, and Tea saw hatred flare in the man’s dark eyes. She stiffened, her stomach clenching. She knew that look, for she had given Galan the same one shortly after their first meeting. Suddenly, she knew what the man would say next. A chill feathered over her skin, and she gripped the edge of the table.
If only she could make time stand still; in a few moments the peace she had just begun to enjoy would be shattered.
Mund shifted his attention back to Galan.
“It’s The Wolf, My Chief,” he said, his words ringing out across the fort. “Loc mac Domech has broken the peace.”