“Well, children,” said Father Brien matter-of-factly, “I shall fetch a cup of mead, for I believe we all have need of it. Then we shall talk. Try not to harm one another for a few moments, I beg you.”

He rose, and Simon let him go. Clearly, though, I was not yet free to do the same, for as soon as I managed to sit upright I felt his hand around my arm again, and there was still a fierce determination in his grip. Clearly there was some reserve of strength there that even I had not guessed at.

We sat in uneasy silence until Father Brien returned, bearing a jug and some cups, and then Finbar began to speak in our tongue.

“No!” I said sharply, cutting him off. “Speak so that Simon can understand you. There have been enough secrets already. We may be enemies but we can at least be civil.”

“You think so?” said Finbar, brows raised. “The Briton here has hardly shown civility.”

“Now,” said Father Brien, giving each of us a cup, “let us simulate a truce, at least, and attempt to sort this out. I believe Finbar is here on peaceful business, young man; he was to collect his sister and escort her home.”

“As you see, I am unarmed,” said Finbar, his hands open on his knees. A strand of hair fell across his eyes, but he made no attempt to brush it away. It was me he was watching this time. “I’m here to fetch Sorcha, that’s all. I had been thinking of asking after your health, to see maybe if saving you was worth the bother; but I won’t trouble myself with that now.”

He has no intention of hurting me. Can’t you see that?

Finbar raised his brows at me, disbelieving. Simon was silent, his cup untouched on the grass beside him. I felt his hand burning against my skin, through the thin fabric of my dress. The dog sniffed at the mead.

“Any news from your father, Finbar?” Father Brien asked casually.

“Not yet. It will be some time longer, I think. Your patient will be safe enough until he can travel. It would be good to be able to say the same for my sister. For one who was called here to heal, it seems she has not been treated kindly. I think I have come none too soon.”

Simon’s voice was cruel. “What did you expect? A jubilant welcome? Fawning gratitude? Give me one reason why I should be thankful to be returned to life!”

There was a silence.

“Son,” said Father Brien eventually, “the future seems dark to you at present, and there is no telling where your way will lead. But there is a light on every path. In time you will find it.”

“Spare me your homespun faith,” said Simon wearily. “I despise it, and you.”

“You are hardly in a position to throw it back in his face,” said Finbar mildly. “He cares for you and your kind because of that very faith. Without it, he might be a killer like my kinsmen. And, perhaps, like yours.”