If they discovered his father had not only been a farmer but a tenant farmer at that, he wouldn’t last another minute.
Perhaps he could send them to his own father, and convince them Rumann was the thief.
Fingin shook his head at the petty thought. While he had no love for his father, in the past or the present, he couldn’t set a squad of killers on his trail, even if he knew where his father now lived. If his father now lived. For all Fingin knew, he could have found a drunken grave in some brook by now. He’d been heading in that direction when Fingin left to find his own way in the world.
Would he mourn his father’s death? It seemed disrespectful to not at least care. He simply never wanted to see the man again, ever in his life. His mother had been little better, inattentive, and concerned with her own comforts over everything else. His brothers… his brothers had tormented him, beaten him, and bullied him, but their deaths would still cause him sadness.
One warrior murmured something to his companion, and both laughed with loud brays. Sean answered them, but in Fingin’s mind, the donkey spoke. “They want to kill you, Fingin. I can smell it. A nasty, sour smell.”
Bran couldn’t hear Sean’s words but shared the sentiment. He still glanced at each of the men with suspicion.
A village hove into sight as they came around a cut in the hillside. Not a large village; about six farms huddled together around the path, with a small, muddy pond to one side. A drover passed them with six head of cattle, nodding cautiously at the troupe. The leader, Cailte, nodded back.
When the drover disappeared over the hill and they’d left the village, his closest companion punched Cailte’s shoulder. “Should we circle back tonight? I could devour one of those cows.”
Cailte shook his head. “Too close to the last one. They’ll track our route if we’re too obvious. Wait a few days and quiet your demanding gut, aye?”
Fingin gritted his teeth and tried to think of a plan to break away from the group. He needed to leave without arousing their curiosity too much. What would be a plausible excuse? If he said he needed to turn left at the next fork, they might follow, and then he’d be stuck. If he said he had a stop to make, they might join him. He must find some way to extract himself.
Soon, they’d find out he had no noble birth, and his very life would be forfeit. They would take Bran and Sean and all the wonderful supplies Brigit had given him. The healing pendant remained buried under his léine, well out of sight. Not that it appeared valuable, being made of wrought iron, but anything jewelry-like was fair game.
Maybe he should pretend to be ill? A mere cough wouldn’t be enough. He needed something truly disgusting. Diarrhea would be too dangerous. Projectile vomiting repelled people rather well but had its own dangers. Besides, he’d seen no herbs nearby that might induce such a reaction. But how about hives? He’d noticed nettles at their last stop. If he rubbed nettle on his cheeks, he could convince them to abandon him.
They may turn noble and insist on escorting him to the nearest healer. In addition, any rash he gave himself might heal too quickly to be natural, due to Brigit’s pendant.
Curse the crows. His head ached with the possibilities.
When they stopped to eat at a glade near a brook, Fingin wandered off nonchalantly to relieve himself. He found a small patch of nettles and harvested some. He’d thought of no better plan. It would have to do.
Cailte nodded toward Fingin’s packs on the donkey. “Have you any fresh bread in there? We ran out yesterday.” The other men nodded and watched him with an appraisal.
Swallowing hard, Fingin shrugged. “I think I have a loaf left, but I d-d-don’t know how fresh it is.”
With cautious movements, he found the bag he thought Brigit had packed with food. He snaked his hand inside to avoid unpacking everything to get to it, as that would show the entire company what he had. He would rather keep their knowledge of his supplies to a minimum.
His hand found something soft, and he extracted it with care. He held up the large loaf of rosemary rye bread. The men nodded as Fingin handed the treat to Cailte. The leader sliced it with his belt knife, doling out the bread to each person.
Fingin didn’t get a slice.
That act alone told Fingin all he needed to know of their intentions toward him. The basic rules of hospitality meant nothing to them. He needed to escape before they commandeered the rest of his possessions.
Cailte handed out the hard tack, this time giving Fingin a small slice. The rough, preserved food took forever to chew, but it kept both the warriors and himself occupied while he considered his options.
One of the younger warriors let out a deep sigh. “I’m bored. Who has a story?”
Cailte’s second, Fearghus, sat up into a storyteller’s pose. “So, I went patrolling near the end of the last season. I’d not found anyone worth fighting in a moon and ached for a good battle. My company had already settled down in a coastal village for the winter, but I grew restless and went off on my own.
“I walked along the edge of the land, in the west, along some lonely spit
