He winked at the boy in thanks for his conspiracy and took another bite of his first tart, savoring the wonderful taste anew.
When he emerged from this tasty bliss, he opened his eyes. Aideen grinned, while Faelan scowled. The boys all concentrated on their own sweets except Lorcan, who had a half-smile. “You’re funny, Fingin.”
Fingin chuckled at the boy’s assessment. He didn’t mind being funny. Being funny had much fewer dangers than being feared or hated. He glanced at Faelan, but the older man no longer sat at the head of the table. He’d gone to the sideboard to pour himself a mug. Fingin doubted it was more water, as that ewer remained on the table.
His father used to drink ale all day long. Fingin wondered if Faelan did the same.
Aideen stood and shooed all the boys out, including Fingin. “Go outside now. I’ve plenty of work to clean up after you lot. Go now!”
They went. Ségán led them outside to the side yard, where he set three of them to work mucking out the stables. “You, Fingin, and Lorcan, come with me.”
He glanced at his new young friend, but the younger boy had cast his gaze to his feet. Fingin shrugged and followed Ségán. Bran trotted behind, his tongue lolling.
“That was a long time! Did you bring anything for me?”
Surreptitiously, Fingin slipped Bran the chunk of lamb he’d tucked into his hand. The hound gobbled it up and licked Fingin’s fingers as they walked.
The eldest son stood taller than Fingin by at least a handspan and had broader shoulders. However, from what Aideen had said, Fingin had several seasons on the boy. Still, age was one thing, and physical strength was another.
Ségán stopped next to the pigpen and grinned. It wasn’t a nice grin. “So, Lorcan’s found himself a protector, eh? How good are you at fighting, Fingin?”
Fingin narrowed his eyes at the other young man but said nothing. His knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists, though, and Bran growl came low and menacing.
“Now, now, no fair siccing your mutt on me. It’s just you and me. Man to man.” Ségán put up his fists and settled into a fighting stance.
“I won’t f-f-fight you. I’m a g-g-g-guest.”
“Oho! So the mute speaks! I heard about you in the village, you know. The mute boy who can’t speak. But you can speak! Sort of. Lorcan, couldn’t you choose better than this? He isn’t even a real man.”
“Leave him alone, Ségán! You can’t violate guest-right. Mom will kill you!”
Ségán ignored his brother and brushed his words aside. He circled Fingin, throwing a few test punches his way. Fingin faced him but didn’t fall into a similar stance. He waited, studying the young man.
Fingin hated fighting. That didn’t mean he didn’t know how.
Bran jumped several times. “Can I bite him? He’s mean. He smells like anger. Please, can I bite him? Please?”
When Fingin’s back was to the pigsty, Ségán made his move. Bran barked wildly, but Fingin cried out, “Stay!”
Ségán let out a bestial yell and barreled forward, but Fingin ducked, not quite in the right place for what he wanted. He whirled around, ready to face the bully again. Ségán pushed himself from the sty fence and circled once more. Again, Fingin positioned himself.
This time, when Ségán growled and rushed him, Fingin grabbed the other man’s shirt and crotch, bent his knees, so he was lower than his opponent, and flipped Ségán over the fence and into the sty.
With a satisfying squish, Ségán landed in the mud and let out a stream of invective. Two pigs nosed him with their snouts, grunting in confusion.
Lorcan and Fingin stared at the muddy mess but left the older boy to his sty. His shouts and curses followed them as they ran around the roundhouse and out of sight.
“W-w-will that mean t-t-trouble for you later?”
Lorcan nodded. “It will. But the sight of him with those pigs made it worth it. Can I escape to your roundhouse tomorrow? Ma is going to her sister’s, and when she’s gone, they get worse.”
Fingin glanced down at the boy and nodded. “We can f-f-fish.” He patted Bran on the head as the dog’s tail thumped hard on the grass.
As Fingin walked home, he recalled when his father fought with his grandmother, long ago. He’d hated when they fought, but hadn’t been able to escape or fight back. It had encouraged him to learn how to do both.
His grandmother had been acting strange, and the tension in their household had increased. She left for entire days with no reason or excuse. She came home late at night, most nights, or not at all on others. Every time Rumann asked where she’d been, she ignored her son. Even Fingin’s mother couldn’t coax an explanation from her. Her eyes had glazed over, and Fingin suspected she might be losing her wits, but other times, she remained sharp.
His father had been drinking ale all day, which hadn’t been unusual. His mother had already fallen asleep, exhausted from her busy day.
When his grandmother stumbled into the door late after the evening meal with stars in her eyes, Rumann pounced upon her. “There you are! What’s your excuse tonight, woman?”
She speared him with a withering glance. “I do as I like, Rumann. You aren’t my husband.”
He threw his mug against the wooden wall, startling Fingin’s mother awake. She groaned in complaint, but didn’t rise. Fingin huddled in his own alcove, afraid to make a noise.
“I’m your son! Not that you ever act like a mother should. You ought to sit by the fire and sew, not gallivant off at
