“I fight,” Knut said in Irish. “Show heart. Strong. Fight best man here.”

Cathal unfolded his long frame from his seat and stood to face the Norseman. “Then you don’t want me,” he said. “Johnny is my superior with the sword, whether it’s the old broadsword or the new weapon. And I don’t suppose you have the gall to challenge him.”

There was a little silence, broken only by Jouko’s murmured translation.

“Me, you. Good fight.” Knut’s gaze met Cathal’s, blue eyes fiercely intent, black ones, if anything, mildly amused. Among the men there was a stirring, a whispering, as everyone waited for Johnny’s response.

“Your request will be given consideration, Knut.” Johnny’s tone was calm as always. “As Rat explained, the bouts are intended as part of our visitors’ training, and to keep our men’s skills sharp. If you and your wife are still here on the island in seven days, and if Rat judges it wise to allow you the use of one of Sam’s blades in the meantime, you may get a chance to prove yourself.”

If this was intended as a not-too-subtle suggestion that Knut had bitten off more than any man could chew, it was lost on the Norseman. “I fight. You give me sword, I show.”

“There’s no doubting your courage,” Johnny said, giving him a look that was impossible to read. “Any other questions?”

“Come on, Sibeal.” Clodagh grabbed my sleeve and headed toward the gate. No sign of Svala; she had already left. Perhaps Knut’s behavior was as embarrassing to her as hers was to him.

At breakfast Cathal had asked me to make sure Clodagh rested in the afternoon. After a bite to eat, she and I went to the married quarters, where I sat by her bedside and told stories until she fell asleep, blanket tucked over her expanding form. With her flame-colored curls spread across the pillow and her features smoothed by the sleep that had quickly overtaken her, she looked young and vulnerable. Not for the first time, I felt like an older sister, not a younger.

I tiptoed out and made my way to the infirmary. I visited the privy, brushed my hair and washed my face. Then I went to stand beside the sleeping Ardal, half of me wanting him to wake up so he would know I was there, the other half knowing this peaceful slumber was what he most needed.

Muirrin was hanging bunches of seaweed up to dry. “This kind’s called newt’s tail,” she explained. “It’s effective in an infusion for easing cramps. Tastes not unlike cress.” When I did not reply, she looked over at me and added, “He’s doing better, Sibeal. He’s been resting a lot more comfortably, and Evan says his water’s not so dark.”

I looked down at the sleeping man. “Has he said anything today? Talked to you at all?”

“Don’t expect too much, Sibeal. Breathing is enough of a mountain for him to climb. In fact, he asked for you, in quite presentable Irish. I told him you’d be here later.”