The soup was a good one, with onions and barley, and it did not take long for Janis’s vast cauldron to be empty. Then we sat with our cups of wine between our hands, and the glow of the fire on our tired faces, and Liam said, “Who will tell us a tale for a winter night?” But there was a quietness about the house, and nobody was forthcoming. This midwinter, there had been no branches of holly above the door, no herbs festooned about the window openings, to welcome wandering spirits in. There was no dry wood to be spared for bonfires, and none with the energy or will to celebrate the passing of the seasons. Nonetheless, there was an amity among us, a sense of shared purpose that bound us all together. I believed even my father sensed this, as he sat by Liam and looked long at his eldest son, who was already a leader of men. And at Conor, whose serene gaze was abstracted, as if his thoughts were directed far inward. This son was wise beyond his years; soon it would be time for him to move on, and there was the anticipation of another loss in my father’s eyes. Then there was Finbar, standing behind his father’s chair, seeing much, saying nothing. This was the son who had once so enraged his father with his steadfast gaze and his outspoken words, with his dogged refusal to play Lord Colum’s games. It was this son, now, who had healed his father’s wounded spirit. And Padriac, always a favorite. Padriac, who was now no longer a child. He flirted with the maidservants, and grinned at his father, and Colum gave a glimmer of a smile.

We sat awhile, talking of this and that, reluctant to leave the comfort of the kitchen for our chilly sleeping quarters. The fire burned lower, and Donal threw on another of the precious logs. They had cut more wood and stacked it, but it would take a long time to dry, and there were many hearths to warm. The villagers got the first supply, and we took what was left.

Then there were noises outside, and suddenly all of us were alert. The door was rudely pushed open, and Liam was on his feet, reaching for his sword, thrusting me behind him. On my other side, Donal appeared, dagger at the ready. Conor moved to shield his father. In a blast of cold air, two of Liam’s guards burst in, a prisoner between them, a prisoner with a blindfold over his eyes, and his hands tied behind him. I had a flash of Simon, dragged into the great hall on the night Liam was betrothed to Eilis, a spitting, ferocious captive. This prisoner was tall and strongly built, and he was not putting up a struggle, but standing still between his captors as if being brought here had been his intention all along. This prisoner had hair cropped ruthlessly short, hair the color of autumn sunlight on beech leaves, a bright flame in the winter night.