knock on her door. “Is there anything you need, Mistress Congalaig?” He would stand, cap in hand, sweat on his brow, his blue eyes full of concern.
Fionn had been steadfast, undemanding, polite. Though her heart still sorrowed for Domhnall, Muirin wasn’t blind. Fionn was tall, vigorous, more handsome than most. Like most Maelsechnaill men, he had deep blue eyes and blond hair, but his hair was shot through with darker tones. In his face he resembled his sister, but where Brighid’s features were delicate, his were manly, aristocratic. When Muirin looked at him, she fancied she could see the royal Ui Naill blood still strong in his veins. She’d been in awe of him as a little girl. Like other families, her family had shared whatever harvest they had—honey from the hive, cheese, a cut of beef—with the Ui Maelsechnaiil, descendents of the High Kings and rightful heirs of the land. Master Ui Maelsechnaiil, Fionn’s father, had been a hedgerow teacher and had risked his life to teach parish children—boys and girls—to read and do math. He’d taught them ancient Irish history, taught them to walk proud and not to bow down under the weight of the Sasanach. And when he’d been caught and dragged off like a common criminal to be sold as a slave . .. Muirin had wept for him and his family. “To be Irish is to remember,” he’d said.
She would remember him.
As a little girl, Muirin had revered her teacher, thought his son a true prince of Eire. She’d thought him as far beyond her reach as the sea from the stars. But now . . . Handsome and kind though he was, she tried to ignore the way her heart beat faster when he was around. Domhnall had been dead only seven months, God rest his soul, and she had no business caring for another man. Not yet. But she could help Fionn, return the kindness he had showed her by caring for little Aidan. Fionn had brought Aidan to her, and with Aidan had come the sunshine. He chattered all the time, asked lots of questions. He worked as hard as a boy of nine could. He kept the hearth piled high with peat, fed the chickens and cows, collected the day’s eggs without cracking a single shell, carried water from the well. She suspected he was trying to be the man about the house, and she would indulge him and praise him for his efforts as long as he didn’t do something that might get him hurt. Muirin watched, charmed, as he scraped the bottom of the bowl for the last bit of broth, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Have you eaten your fill, or would you like a third helping? I can’t have you doin’ a man’s work on a child’s portion.”
“I’m full now, thank you.” He hopped up from the table, scattering crumbs on the floor. “You know what?” “No, what?”
“Fionn says I’m going to be taller than him someday.” “And well you might. I remember your father, and he was a tall man. You take after him.”
“Fionn says—“
But his words were cut off by the sound of approaching hooves.
Muirfn felt a surge of panic. “Aidan, quick! Hide in the comer under the bed. Don’t come out, no matter what! Do you understand?”
The boy’s face paled, but he lifted his chin. “I’m not afraid! I can fight—“ “I know you’re not afraid, Aidan. You’re a brave boy, but now is not the time to fight. Do as I say. And don’t come out until I call you, no matter what you see or hear! Go!”
Aidan moved reluctantly at first, but as the hooves neared the cottage, he ran to the small bed and disappeared beneath it.
Muirin smoothed her apron, took a deep breath, tried to calm herself. Her mind exploded with unanswered questions. Had the iarla found the hideout? Did he know she was helping Brighid? Had he sent his men for Aidan? She pushed the questions aside, opened the door, stepped out, tried not to gasp.
The iarla himself.
She closed the door behind her, prayed Aidan would do as he was told. The day was cold and overcast, but in her fear she barely felt the
Fionn had been steadfast, undemanding, polite. Though her heart still sorrowed for Domhnall, Muirin wasn’t blind. Fionn was tall, vigorous, more handsome than most. Like most Maelsechnaill men, he had deep blue eyes and blond hair, but his hair was shot through with darker tones. In his face he resembled his sister, but where Brighid’s features were delicate, his were manly, aristocratic. When Muirin looked at him, she fancied she could see the royal Ui Naill blood still strong in his veins. She’d been in awe of him as a little girl. Like other families, her family had shared whatever harvest they had—honey from the hive, cheese, a cut of beef—with the Ui Maelsechnaiil, descendents of the High Kings and rightful heirs of the land. Master Ui Maelsechnaiil, Fionn’s father, had been a hedgerow teacher and had risked his life to teach parish children—boys and girls—to read and do math. He’d taught them ancient Irish history, taught them to walk proud and not to bow down under the weight of the Sasanach. And when he’d been caught and dragged off like a common criminal to be sold as a slave . .. Muirin had wept for him and his family. “To be Irish is to remember,” he’d said.
She would remember him.
As a little girl, Muirin had revered her teacher, thought his son a true prince of Eire. She’d thought him as far beyond her reach as the sea from the stars. But now . . . Handsome and kind though he was, she tried to ignore the way her heart beat faster when he was around. Domhnall had been dead only seven months, God rest his soul, and she had no business caring for another man. Not yet. But she could help Fionn, return the kindness he had showed her by caring for little Aidan. Fionn had brought Aidan to her, and with Aidan had come the sunshine. He chattered all the time, asked lots of questions. He worked as hard as a boy of nine could. He kept the hearth piled high with peat, fed the chickens and cows, collected the day’s eggs without cracking a single shell, carried water from the well. She suspected he was trying to be the man about the house, and she would indulge him and praise him for his efforts as long as he didn’t do something that might get him hurt. Muirin watched, charmed, as he scraped the bottom of the bowl for the last bit of broth, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Have you eaten your fill, or would you like a third helping? I can’t have you doin’ a man’s work on a child’s portion.”
“I’m full now, thank you.” He hopped up from the table, scattering crumbs on the floor. “You know what?” “No, what?”
“Fionn says I’m going to be taller than him someday.” “And well you might. I remember your father, and he was a tall man. You take after him.”
“Fionn says—“
But his words were cut off by the sound of approaching hooves.
Muirfn felt a surge of panic. “Aidan, quick! Hide in the comer under the bed. Don’t come out, no matter what! Do you understand?”
The boy’s face paled, but he lifted his chin. “I’m not afraid! I can fight—“ “I know you’re not afraid, Aidan. You’re a brave boy, but now is not the time to fight. Do as I say. And don’t come out until I call you, no matter what you see or hear! Go!”
Aidan moved reluctantly at first, but as the hooves neared the cottage, he ran to the small bed and disappeared beneath it.
Muirin smoothed her apron, took a deep breath, tried to calm herself. Her mind exploded with unanswered questions. Had the iarla found the hideout? Did he know she was helping Brighid? Had he sent his men for Aidan? She pushed the questions aside, opened the door, stepped out, tried not to gasp.
The iarla himself.
She closed the door behind her, prayed Aidan would do as he was told. The day was cold and overcast, but in her fear she barely felt the
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