Ten

Lacking magic to heat water and start fires, the accommodations at Hallfield weren’t quite as luxurious as those in Castle MacAlasdair, yet they were a blessed improvement after a week on the road. Madoc came to dinner freshly washed and with the smell of fresh meat and bread reaching him even before he entered the great hall.

As he passed the lower tables, he spotted Moiread immediately among the men-at-arms. She sat at one end, laughing as an older man told a story with demonstration by way of knife and trencher. Her clear skin was flushed with laughter and the heat of the hall. Catching Madoc’s eye, she gave him a quick, graceful bow from her seat.

She too had changed from the journey, Madoc noticed. She’d cleaned herself and replaced her brown tunic with a fine linen one of pale yellow, almost white, with a dark green surcoat over it. She wore both belted loosely, no doubt so that the illusion would have less work to do, but left no doubt of her height or her strength.

Others had noticed as well, including, obviously, Seonag. Calhoun’s daughter made a proper curtsy to Madoc and greeted him in a well-bred, friendly manner, but turned her great brown eyes back in Moiread’s direction as soon as she thought nobody noticed her.

Madoc kept his laughter silent. There would have been a lesson in that for any lord grown over-proud of his wealth and rank. To eleven, apparently twenty was enough older to entrance, while twenty-five, no matter how finely dressed, was nothing less than ancient.

That was as well. As they sat listening to the harper after dinner, when the children and the elderly priest alike had departed for bed, the Calhoun leaned over to Madoc and quietly asked, “Does your squire know…ah…” He waggled a hand in the air.

“No, not really,” said Madoc. “That is, he knows what I’m doing, but he couldn’t do it himself.”

He thought that was true enough. He hadn’t considered including Moiread as part of the ritual, lest the bonds he’d already strengthened with the MacAlasdairs become tangled up with those he forged with the Calhouns, and out of worry that either the illusion she wore or the power of her bloodline would complicate the spell. When he answered the Calhoun, Madoc thought that he would prevent any expectations of “Michael’s” involvement. He hadn’t expected the slow nod Eachann gave him.

Ah. Oh dear.

Madoc hadn’t expected a squire, and one of unfamiliar blood, to attract any lord’s eye. He also hadn’t taken war into account. The benches where Moiread and the rest of the men-at-arms sat weren’t as crowded as he would have expected, and many of her companions sported fresh scars or missing limbs. Men of rank might have fared a little better, generally facing ransom more often than hanging; they were also better targets.

He wondered how many lords, both in Scotland and England, were looking at their unmarried daughters and adjusting their aspirations downward, wondered how many convents would gain a profusion of novices as men tried to buy divine favor when earthly alliances proved lacking. He wondered whether the same situation had held true in Wales in the years before his birth. Madoc’s aunt had taken the veil. He’d always thought it was a calling, when he’d thought of it at all.

He hadn’t, really, thought of it at all.

Speaking as casually as he could, he added, “I doubt he’s had the chance to learn. Youngest son, you see. He’d have gone for the church, but it was the second son who felt that urge.”

“Ah,” said Eachann, more resigned and less speculative than he had been. At worst, he’d likely decide to wait a few years and see how the boy did for himself, thus letting Madoc and Moiread get out of the castle without many more awkward conversations.

Madoc cleared his throat and looked to the corner where Uisdean sat with his eyes half closed, listening to the music. “Your father does well, it seems.”

“He does, by the grace of God,” said Eachann, “but the last few years have been hard on him.”

“The war?”

“Aye, that’s troubled all of us, but it’s Father’s eyes that vex him particularly. He’s still sharp as anything.” So Madoc had seen at dinner, when the older man had taken a swift and lively part in the conversation, asking questions, making jokes, and telling stories of his own. “And still hale enough for his age. His sight, though… That started to fail a half-dozen years ago. Now he can get around on his own and feed himself, but that’s all. He can’t tell one face from another, much less read, and he was always a learned man.”

“A pity it is,” said Madoc.

Eachann nodded. “I’ve not had a physician in who’s been able to help. ’Tis age, they say, and in truth he’s had more than his threescore and ten. There’s none can change that.”

At the end, his voice rose slightly, suggesting a question that he didn’t actually come out and ask.

Madoc shook his head. “None that I know. I’ve met men who could heal blindness from illness or injury or curse, and I’ll send them in your direction if you’d wish, but”—he sighed—“I’ve seen no spell yet that could make a man young again.”

He’d heard of a man keeping himself young, or middle-aged. That had been Albert de Percy, who’d styled himself “Valerius” and threatened the MacAlasdairs. De Percy had been the blackest of sorcerers. His powers had come from a pact with hell itself, and Madoc suspected that de Percy’s extended life had been part of that bargain. Otherwise, the span of a man’s years seemed a matter of blood and the effects of those years.

“A saint might help, or a relic,” he said cautiously, never having tried either himself and knowing how many false relics men sold.

“I’d thought perhaps a pilgrimage to Saint Denis,” the Calhoun replied. “Now that the war is over, we may be able to do it. I’ll wait through this winter, make sure the harvest is safely in.”

Again the unspoken words: and make sure the peace is going to last this time.

No truce lasted forever, but a man could hope for room to breathe: a few years to gather in crops, to let sons come to manhood, to visit shrines, to do all the work of peacetime that built against wars to come and made them less devastating when they did.

Madoc wished he’d thought to say those things before, when he and Moiread had been talking. As Eachann poured himself more wine, Madoc took the moment to look off toward the rest of the hall, seeking her face in the crowd.

* * *

“Don’t fret,” said Clyde, a man-at-arms at Hallfield and Moiread’s self-appointed guide. “If your lord wants you, he’ll send a page to call you up. Plenty of the lads running around.”

“Aye? Glad to hear it,” said Moiread, turning her gaze away from the high table. She’d had only a moment to meet Madoc’s gaze before Clyde intervened, but it was of little import. Madoc looked content, though thoughtful, and certainly suited to the lord’s dais.

And what Clyde said was true, in its own way. Had Madoc any pressing business with her, it would have been easy enough to call her up and speak under the pretext of setting tasks for her.

You’re only jumpy, Moiread told herself again. This business of being a man’s only guard was taxing on the mind. She might have preferred war, where she merely needed to watch her own back and mind her men’s in a tactical sense.

Clyde handed her the wineskin and the dice.

“Good man, is he?”

“Very,” Moiread said and rolled, thinking that her duty did have its advantages. There were wine and dice in the camps, of course, but not often with a sturdy roof overhead or a fire nearby. The wine was never as good, and men were more apt to turn murderous over the dice. “Easy service, so far.”

“Would be, wouldn’t it?” said another of the castle guards. “Away from the wars and all.”

“I was in the wars,” Moiread shot back, responding almost instinctively to the accusation in the man’s tone. Silently she swore, and shrugged as the men looked dubious. “I’ve come to his service lately, and I was a page with the armies when I was young.”

“‘When I was young,’ he says.” Clyde laughed, trying to soothe the troubled waters. “Hark at the graybeard.”

“But your lord wasn’t,” said the other man.

“Well, no,” said a fourth. “I’ve heard the man speak, and he’s not from any bit of Scotland I know.”

“Welsh,” said Moiread. “So no. Hardly his fault, is it?”

“English, then.” It was the first guard, a dark-haired man with a scar pulling his upper lip up on one side. “Or as near as.”

From around them came an intake of breath. “No,” Moiread said again. She set the dice on the table with a clack of bone on wood and leaned forward. “No, and be damned to you for saying it.”

“Be damned yourself,” the scarred man replied. His face was flushed in the firelight. “The English king rules them, does he not? And they fight in his wars.”

“Now, Grant,” said Clyde, holding up a hand.

Moiread snorted. “Losing a war doesn’t make a people, you dolt, else we’d have been English ourselves twenty years gone.”

“Aye, and we were men enough to rise up again, weren’t we? Which I don’t see your lord doing,” Grant spat back.

Everything Madoc had said came back to Moiread: the need to bide time before an overwhelming force, to pick battles and save what could be saved, what was worth saving. She thought too of her own military understanding, the difference in borders and ground and troops. And she knew that none of those arguments would aid her against this man. She knew what was expected of her.

Moiread rose from the bench. “I’m a guest in your lord’s hall,” she said, “and I’ll not disgrace him or my lord by brawling here. If you’d care to step outside, we can settle any questions of manhood you have in mind.”

“I’ll teach you manners and gladly, boy,” said Grant.

Various murmurs rose around them. Clyde was saying a few things, trying to calm the situation, but he would know as well as Moiread that it wouldn’t do any good. Once certain words took the air, all that would cage them again were fists. The best he could do was keep it to a brawl.

Madoc was watching her from the dais. Moiread gave him a quick bow and saw him start to stand. Eachann put a hand on his shoulder and spoke, low and amused. Young blood, it could have been, or let the boy prove himself. Whatever it was, Madoc sank back down, though he didn’t look happy about it.

Neither was Moiread happy, leaving the warm hall and the music for the windy courtyard. The light wasn’t wonderful, and it had been a few years since she’d been in a fight without weapons. She sighed as she walked out the doors and around the corner.

Only Grant and Clyde went with her, the others having more sense than to leave comfort in order to watch a fistfight.

“Will neither of you give over?” Clyde asked as he stepped out of the way.

“Can’t,” said Moiread. “Sorry.”

“I spoke but the truth,” said Grant, slurring his words more than a bit, “and I’d say it again. Your lord’s maybe a spy and most likely a coward.”

He might have gone on, but then Moiread punched him in the jaw.

Pulling the blow was always the hard part. In human form, she was no stronger than a hefty mortal man, but that was considerable force, and men did die in tavern brawls. Killing this one, even by accident, would have gone badly.

So she struck more lightly than she could have—a solid hit, but not enough to put a man out, especially a drunk one. Grant staggered backward, righted himself, and threw a punch in return. He had a good arm on him, and his eye was keen. Still, Moiread ducked it easily.

Enough of this foolishness.

She jabbed a fist quickly into Grant’s stomach. He doubled over. She pulled back, swung, and hit him in the nose with a satisfying crack. Still she pulled her blows, but it didn’t matter. Speed was as good as strength for an advantage once a fight was underway, and less likely to be accidentally lethal.

“Can we have done with this now?” she asked, stepping back but keeping her guard up.

Grant was clutching his nose, blood flowing freely through his fingers. To give what little credit he deserved, he wasn’t yelling with pain, only making a low noise in the back of his throat.

Moiread pressed on. “Will you keep a civil tongue about my lord in the future?”

Hesitation, then a jerky nod, gave her the answer.

“Aye,” said Clyde, “go find the leech and get that seen to. Your snoring’s bad enough as it is. He’s a decent man, in his way,” he added after Grant had departed. “But he took the war hard. Plenty do, in that way or another. You’re maybe too young to have seen it.”

“Ah,” said Moiread.

Thinking she was embarrassed about admitting it, Clyde clapped her on the shoulder. “Youth’s an ailment we all recover from, lad, and sooner than we’d like. Come back inside, and we’ll finish the wine.”

She went. Wine sounded good right then.