Aidan cleared his throat. “I’ve practiced this in my head every day since Cathal told you about Rathnait, the girl at Whiteshore,” he said. “But it’s not going to come out right, I know it. Clodagh, Rathnait is only twelve years old. My father and her father made an arrangement years ago that she and I would eventually wed and so strengthen the tie between their adjoining holdings. Rathnait is a shy child, years away from being ready to marry. I’ve never been able to view her as a prospective bride. She’s the little girl next door, playing with her dolls, running about the garden with her terrier, hiding behind her mother whenever the family visited Whiteshore. I’m a grown man, Clodagh. In autumn I’ll be one-and-twenty. I’m a warrior. I’ve killed men, I’ve weathered battles, I’ve traveled far from home and witnessed strange and terrible events. When I sing love songs, I put a grown man’s passion into them, not the dreams of a child.”

“But you’re still betrothed to her,” I said as we rounded a bend in the track and came in sight of a gushing waterfall between young oaks. In truth I felt considerable sympathy for him, especially in the light of how upset he had been earlier, in the stables. “Your father and her father expect you to marry. Maybe she’s only twelve, but little girls do grow up. In four years or so she’ll be ready for a husband and children and her own household.” Even as I said this, I recognized that most men would prefer to be married well before the age of five-and-twenty. Such were the risks to a young warrior in battle that men like Aidan generally preferred to sire children early. The single status of Johnny, who was two-and-twenty, a leader of men and a chieftain’s heir, was considered unusual.

“It’s true, that is the arrangement our fathers planned,” Aidan said. “But nothing’s signed and sealed. The fact is, my father could extricate me from the agreement easily. Especially if the bride I suggested had better prospects than Rathnait’s.”

I turned a questioning gaze on him and he blushed scarlet. “Prospects?” I queried.

“Gods aid me,” said Aidan, “this is like wading through a bog with lead boots on. All my skills with words seem to have deserted me. If I could put it into a song, Clodagh, I would express myself a great deal less awkwardly.”

I suppressed a smile. “No songs are necessary,” I said. “Just explain clearly what you mean. And hurry. I can’t see any sign of Cathal or the children and I’m getting worried.”