“You will see for yourself,” he said, picking up the reins. “In any event, we must go straight back, once you collect your things. I’ve given him a sleeping draft, and that will keep him quiet for most of today, but we must be there when he wakes, or he may do himself ill.”

“I’m not sure Conor will let me go,” I said.

“Why don’t we ask him now?” said Father Brien.

We found Conor alone, writing. There was no mention of Britons, nor of escaped prisoners; Father Brien explained simply that he needed to consult me about a patient, and Conor showed a remarkable lack of curiosity as to the details. He seemed almost to have expected the request, and agreed on the condition that it was only for a few days, and that I would come home as soon as he sent Finbar to collect me. I left the two of them talking, and went to pack a small bundle, wondering as I scanned the stillroom shelves what we might be dealing with: burns, bruises, fever, shock? Father Brien had not been very specific. I took some clothing for myself and small necessities, enough for a few days. I left my wet cloak steaming gently before the kitchen fires. I took a larger one belonging to one of the boys. Regretfully, I was forced to admit that the onset of autumn required me to go shod outdoors, and I thrust my cold feet into a pair of boots that were somewhat too big for them. It was handy being the youngest, and smallest.

“A few days only, mind,” Conor was saying as I made my way back to the cart. “I’ll send Finbar up for her. And take care on the road; it’ll be slick going up that last hill.”

Father Brien was already seated, and despite the brevity of the stop, there was a basket from our kitchens, with bread and cheese and vegetables, tucked in behind him. He gave my brother a grave nod. Conor lifted me up, none too gently, and we were away before I could say a word.

The rain slowly abated to a drizzle. We made our way under bare-branched willows, between the first outcrops of rock, beside the bleakly gray waters of the lake, where not a bird could be seen.

“You know who this boy is, I take it?” said Father Brien casually, never taking his eyes off the track ahead.

“I know what he is,” I corrected cautiously. “Not who. I have an idea of what happened to him. What I don’t know is what I’m supposed to do for him. You’d better tell me that before we get there, if I’m to be of some use.”

He glanced at me sideways, apparently amused.

“Fair enough,” he said. “The boy had some injuries. Serious injuries. He’d likely have died, if your brother hadn’t got him away.”

“With a bit of help from me,” I said, somewhat miffed that my part in the rescue was forgotten already.