Fingin nodded with a glance at Bran. He didn’t want to talk in front of her if he could help it, but he’d make sure Bran behaved when they arrived. She hadn’t made fun of his speech, but the fewer reminders of his difference, the better.
“I do hope you like lamb stew. We slaughtered two of our lambs last week, as our ewes birthed too many to feed properly. The meat has just aged to perfection. Luckily, we got a great load of salt on Faelan’s last trip to the east. He makes a trade trip once every few months. He travels to a large town right on the river mouth with people who do nothing but trade. Can you imagine that? They grow no crops and raise no kine. The people don’t even sail any ships! They just trade with the sailors and the farmers. Such a strange world we live in. Faelan said he even met someone from Rome!”
Fingin had heard of Rome, an eternal city, and according to his parents, the cradle of all civilized manners. His grandmother hadn’t been of the same mind, but she didn’t contradict them where they could hear. Their fervent belief in the new religion came from Rome, and they’d hear no criticism. Rome brought images of short, stocky, dark men in loose-wrapped robes, with skin darkened by a strong southern sun. Cities thronging with hundreds of people, maybe even thousands. Fingin couldn’t imagine being so close to so many people, living each day shoulder to shoulder with all those strangers. He shivered.
“Wouldn’t it be something to travel to Rome? To see temples to the gods, the Forum, all those foreigners in one place? Faelan heard tales of people with skin as black as tar! So exotic. I asked him, once, if we could go with him to the shore when he traded, but he grew a bit upset at the suggestion. After that, it seemed best not to mention it.”
She fell silent for the first time, her eyes pinched in a pensive expression. Fingin wondered if Faelan’s version of “a bit upset” looked anything like his own father’s version. If so, he didn’t blame Aideen for avoiding an argument.
His own father had sometimes been physical in his disapprovals. He rarely struck his wife or his son. Fingin’s grandmother wouldn’t have stood for such abuse. However, his words had cut deeply enough for Fingin to avoid any interaction with him, even when he could speak with eloquence. The few times he had received a physical beating, it hurt hard enough for him to avoid another at all costs.
For a panicked moment, Fingin frowned. He couldn’t remember his grandmother’s name. His father was Rumann, and his mother’s Mugain. What had his grandmother’s name been?
He wracked his brain, trying to remember what his mother called her. She’d been Fingin’s father’s mother, so his father called her “Mother.” Something with a C. Clooadh? Clodagh? Something like that.
“Ah, here we are! See the house on the hill? That’s where our brood lives. The field to the left is all rye, and the one on the right has a mix of turnips and cabbage. I have my herb garden, of course. Perhaps you’d like to trade some of your fish with me? I really have too many herbs to use this winter, even with drying.”
Fingin smiled. Lorcan must have mentioned how bland his own stew tasted. He didn’t mind. If it meant he could trade for things he needed without braving the market and Nuala, he felt glad the boy had said something.
Perhaps he would enjoy visiting this family, despite himself.
* * *
A shrill scream cut across the countryside as they approached the large, two-story roundhouse. A bare moment later, a thin, blond boy of about twelve winters darted out the front door toward them, followed by an older boy, with heavier shoulders and red hair. He growled as the younger boy swerved left and right, evading his grasp with easy agility. Another shout drew Fingin’s attention back to the doorway, where a third young man with brown curls similar to Lorcan’s stood, hands on his hips. He shouted again, but this time Fingin understood his words.
“Get back here, both of you! Ma will be back soon, and the table’s not set!”
His imprecations did nothing to curb the boys’ antics, but they meandered back toward the building as their chase continued. Soon, they barreled past the older boy and into the door.
The momentary silence made Aideen grin. “Those were my three eldest, Niall, Muirchu, and Ségán in the doorway. You’ll meet Lugaid inside. He’s almost as quiet as Lorcan, but my baby is still the sweetest. I do want to thank you again for helping him that day. We couldn’t figure where he’d run off to. The boys had all been playing in the river, collecting deadfall for the fire. Ségán said he just ran away without a word. He’s usually so biddable.”
Fingin recalled Lorcan’s violent reaction to the suggestion he wash in the river and doubted that he “ran away” with no goading. In fact, he suspected the older boys had been too rough in the water. Regardless, he wanted to protect the young man. He felt a particular affinity for the child, especially as Bran had already adopted the boy as another friend.
He trusted Bran’s judgment.
As they got close to the house, Aideen waved at Ségán, who appeared at the door once again. He waved
