“Until they met rock. Rardove is built on bedrock.”
As if she did not know what her castle was set upon.
“So the foundations are firm, but the other parts less so. The gatehouse is weakening, and the portcullis may last through the summer. Or it may not.”
It would not. The logs for its repair were in the northern bailey, half-sawed, half-snowed upon.
“Those planks in the northern bailey ought to have been put up months ago, before the winter came,” he said.
Yes, indeed. Before the flood-wet autumn came, before the sickness came, sweeping through her men, disabling them in successive waves. Yes, before all that.
“Or at least before you came,” she suggested quietly.
Hard-packed muscular thighs bunched as he turned to look up at her, a forearm draped over his knee. “There is a field of mud out there, Katarina. Fronting the castle on every side but the north, and that is where the cliffs are. It is an entire meadow of mud.”
“It is not an entire meadow,” she demurred modestly. “There is a small pathway safe for passage, far to the east…”
“So that is how you did it,” he murmured, a note of respect in his words. But then, Aodh did not seem reluctant to show respect; she suspected it was one of his greatest traits. “The way you were able to hold Rardove with ten men? You tricked and maneuvered and built fields of mud, and you prevailed. I am impressed.”
“It was not so difficult. Firstly, the Irish do not know I only have ten men.”
“Neither do the English.”
“My marchlands, my defense, my purse,” she said firmly. “The queen sends nothing to support the defense of her realm, and—” She stopped short. It did not do to complain of the queen to a rebel. “One does what one can.”
“Indeed. Such as build meadows of mud.”
“Encourage them,” she clarified, and was rewarded with one of his half smiles. “And then, of course, I do not go about antagonizing people,” she added significantly.
“Ah. Fascinating approach.”
“I could recommend it to some.”
“Who?”
The lazy drawl brought a reluctant smile to her mouth. She hesitated, then added, “Additionally, my men are ever brave.”
“And ever loyal.”
The compliment surprised her. “I serve them a great deal of meat.”
He pushed to his feet. “That is not what their loyalty feeds on.” The larger logs caught and flames began licking up all around.
He passed within inches of her, ignoring her completely as he strode to the items stacked against the walls, the crates and sacks and bundles, all sitting atop the huge, oak table. He stared at the collection a moment, then moved everything off with a powerful sweep of his arm and grabbed a corner of the table.
She stepped forward. “Oh, ’tis too heavy, you cannot—”
He hauled the end away from the wall, stepped behind it, and bending at the hips, set his palms against the edge and shoved the table across the room, squealing all the way, until it stood directly in front of the fire that was now crackling merrily.
Well.
“Then you’ll not be pleased to know your clerk has told them to stand down?” he said.
Her gaze shot to his. “What? No. That is impossible. You are mistaken.”
“You may have a point.” He went back for a chair. “I am unfamiliar with your steward. He said, ‘I shall stand down the men.’” He peered at her curiously. “What do you think he meant?”
She scowled at him and began pacing. “Why would he have done such a thing?”