Ré and Cormac exchanged a glance. “Have you considered the O’Fail?”
“No O’Fail.”
*
AODH SLEPT a few brief hours, in the chair in front of the fire. It was a hot, hazy sleep filled with dreams of Katarina, her knees parting for him, her eyes half-lidded with passion as she reached for him.
A touch on his shoulder ripped him from his slumber with a jutting erection. He sprang to his feet, sword drawn.
Bran leapt backward, hands out. “My lord, I am sorry!”
“Jésu, Bran,” he muttered, resheathing his blade with a shove. “How many times have I told you, do not do that.”
He unbuckled his sword belt and threw it on the bed, then plunged his cupped hands into the stone cistern.
Over the fire, a bucket of water warmed, and he washed with it, dressing as Bran reported on the nighttime developments.
“…fully stocked, so we can do a late slaughtering, and Tancred reports the Coward has gone over the accounts fully now, and most are in arrears, but there is a cellar full of wool fells that will be worth a great deal, and there are other reserves that should be …worth…some…thing…”
Bran’s recitation stuttered to a halt.
Bent over the bucket, water dripping off his face and chest, Aodh looked up.
A small figure stood in the doorway, grimy hands clasped in front of an even grimier tunic.
For a moment, he stared, uncomprehending. Then a shot of satisfaction went through him. Katarina’s little page.
Bran glanced at Aodh as the penitent scraped his toe across the floor. Voice rough as if it hadn’t been used in awhile, he muttered, “I’m to turn myself in, my lord. And…be nice.”
Aodh straightened. “Upon whose orders?”
The urchin lifted his head, a derisive twist to his mouth. “My lady’s, o’course, milordsir. There ain’t no one else’s orders I’d listen to.”
“Right,” he agreed slowly, then reached for a towel. “What is your name, boy?”
“Dickon.”
“Richard, is it?”
“Dickon, sir.”
“Very well, Dickon.” Aodh began toweling off his head, then threw the towel aside and gave his head a shake. “Where have you been for the past several days?”
“About,” came the vague, defiant mutter.
“Mm. You’ve run my men a merry chase. That is difficult to do.”
A faint smile touched the boy’s downturned face. “They’re awful big,” came the reply.
“Indeed they are. I’ve reprimanded them on the matter several times.”
The boy’s gaze lifted, but not his head.
“Still, ’tis quite a feat, what you did. Commendable.”
The boy paused. “Sir Walter’d beat me for it, milordsir.”
“Well, fortunate for you, we do not adhere to Walter’s dictates.”