“Sharp,” Flyn continued, thumbing the edge. “Sword this big…doesn’t need to be sharp in truth. But it is. That is admirable dedication to one’s weapon.” Flyn seemed to come out of his revelry, noticing the men for the first time. He smiled at them in a self-effacing manner. “And look at me mistreating it! Baring this fine, sharp steel in the rain? In the salt? I must be a fool!” He fixed the men with a hard stare and his voice dropped. “Why else would I do it?”

The men found they had better things to stare at than Pocket. He looked at Flyn and nodded his thanks.

The squire winked. “You get to oil it,” he said as he returned Coalspur to its sheath.

A long, low moaning drifted over the crashing water and drew Pocket’s attention to the boat and its occupants. He could see them clearly now. A woman clutched a young girl, faces and hands fish-white in the wet cold. The woman shivered, her face drawn, lined with anger and grief, but she did not weep. Her energy was placed into the embrace, holding the girl to her, struggling to keep her still. The moaning came from the girl, a toneless, almost bestial sound pushing past her thick tongue. The poor child’s face was witless, the skull underneath misshapen and over-large. She moved in a constant, clumsy jerk, fighting incomprehensibly at the world around her. The woman grappled tirelessly, at once calming and restraining.

“Pocket!”

Sir Corc’s voice made him jump.

“Bring a blanket from the mule!”

He jumped to the task, fetching it quickly and jogging over to where the knight stood staring balefully at the man. Sir Corc took the blanket from Pocket and shoved it roughly into the man’s arms.

“Now,” the knight all but spat the word. “Have you been properly paid?”

The man looked down at the blanket, his thumb running over the thick weave. He looked up at Sir Corc, a grin splitting his sopping beard, teeth gapped and rotten.

“There are two of them.”

Sir Corc seethed, but the man just stood there grinning his ugly grin. Pocket looked at the knight, water plastering his feathers, his comb quivering with barley contained rage. Sir Corc ripped the dirk from his belt and Pocket flinched away. When he chanced a look, the man was still grinning, holding the weapon greedily.

“See they make a safe crossing,” Sir Corc warned him and walked away. Pocket followed and they went back to where Flyn waited with the mule.

“We will stay the night here,” Sir Corc said. “Tomorrow, we hire a boat to take us to Grianaig.”

“And whither are they bound?” Flyn indicated the two in the currach with his head.