“Yes, she was very much adored,” Beryl said.
“Searrach said I have English eyes.” Padraig didn’t know what had prompted him to confess it, but now that he had, he turned his head to look at the beautiful maid, and to offer them up for her own inspection.
Beryl’s porcelain features cocked thoughtfully, and Padraig thought he saw her own gray eyes widen the tiniest bit, perhaps in surprise.
“Perhaps,” she admitted, but then her lovely pink lips pressed together like some of the grandmothers’ he’d known on Caedmaray. “Although I don’t know that I would place much value in Searrach’s opinion. Shall we meet Sir Lucan?”
Was she jealous of Searrach? The very notion of it caused a warmth in his stomach, but he marked himself as nothing more than a hopeful fool—he’d no business speculating on his value to the enchanting woman when he couldn’t even find his way to the bailey.
Then Padraig remembered a queer habit his da had always kept with Padraig’s mother.
“O’ course,” he said, gesturing toward the open area of the entry with a palm. “After you.”
Beryl’s thin lips softened and she inclined her head. “Thank you, Master Boyd.” She turned with a swirl of gray skirts.
Padraig blew out a silent breath of relief as he followed her from the chamber.
* * * *
Iris felt Padraig Boyd’s gaze touching her the entire way through the corridor. He at last came to her side as they passed into the courtyard, but neither of them said anything and the silence was awkward.
Had Searrach spent the night with him? He’d only just arrived at Darlyrede.
He is a handsome man, she told herself reasonably. And if he succeeds, he could be a powerful man.
Regardless, whoever Padraig Boyd chose to spend his time with was absolutely none of her business.
Lucan was waiting for them, along with the captain of the guard, when they arrived outside the barracks, but rather than pause to talk, Lucan only motioned them to follow. The captain accompanied them with a sort of long quiver strapped to his back, and Iris thought she saw at least one sword hilt from beneath the soft flap of the bag.
Their small party departed through a postern gate in the wall, then trekked down the steep slope away from the hold, and the sun’s bright rays warmed the air in a welcome change from the recent cold weather. Iris was wearing her sturdy servant’s cape and was glad for its protection from the breeze, but Padraig Boyd seemed quite comfortable in nothing more than his—now clean—shirt and trousers, his old plaid across his chest.
“This will do,” Lucan said abruptly, coming to a stop at the bottom of the hill, where a trickling brook coursed through the narrow valley toward the river on the north side of the grounds. The captain swung the bag from his back, laying it on the ground with a clatter, then kneeling at once and flipping open the flap.
“Master Boyd,” Lucan continued, “this is the king’s captain, Ulric.”
The captain glanced up with a curt, “Lord.”
“He shall give you your first combat lesson,” Lucan continued.
“Combat lesson?” Padraig repeated, just catching the wooden sword Ulric tossed to him as he gained his feet, wielding a similar weapon.
“Yes,” Lucan said. “A lord must be ready and able to defend himself and his hold. In any case, I don’t think it would hurt to familiarize yourself with a weapon in case you are again attacked.”
“With a wooden sword?” Padraig said, looking down at the thing with disdain.
“So I don’t inadvertently injure you, lord,” Ulric said apologetically, and then handed him a metal helm. “At Sir Lucan’s insistence.”
“Then he can wear it,” Padraig muttered, and flung the helm to Lucan. The corners of his fine mouth pulled down, he spun the smooth, wooden handle in his palm and then raised his gaze to Ulric. “Come on.”
The captain hesitated. “Prepare yourself, lord.”
“I’m prepared.”
Ulric looked to Lucan as if for help, but when Iris’s brother only shrugged, Ulric turned his attention back to Padraig, his brows lowering.
He charged without a sound, and although Padraig tried to block the captain’s blow, the man had not earned his rank through privilege. Iris gasped as the wooden sword went flying out of the Scotsman’s hand with an “Oof” and then a muffled cry of surprise as Ulric kicked out Padraig’s legs from beneath him. In a blink, the captain stood over Padraig’s prone body, the wooden sword poised over his heart.
Iris cringed as she glanced at Lucan, but her brother seemed unbothered by the sight of the large Scotsman so quickly laid upon his back.
Ulric extended his hand and helped Padraig to his feet, even fetching his weapon and returning it to his hand once more. Then Ulric tucked his sword beneath his arm, taking hold of Padraig by his elbow and wrist.
“Like this.” He swung down Padraig’s hand sharply. “And get your weight behind it—elbow up. On your back foot, there—brace. Now an upward thrust. Look.” The captain released him and brought down his sword slowly, allowing Padraig to repeat the motion on his own.
“Good, lord,” Ulric said. “Now, step forward, hard; come around with it, full circle at my shoulder, here”—Ulric slapped his own arm—“or here, at the ribs.” The pantomime played out. “Again.”
The crack of the wooden swords rang in the air as the two men repeated the motion a score of times, Ulric adding in words of encouragement or correction. Each time Padraig defended and then counterattacked, his movements became faster, harder, and Iris noticed his feet moving more naturally beneath him.
Lucan, too, appeared to be watching closely.
“Your sword is an extension of your arm, lord,” Ulric said. “A sharp extension. Do not leave yourself open to your enemy—here”—he reached out and thumped Padraig’s chest and then his flank—“or here, yes? And keep your legs beneath your shoulders.”
“Aye,” Padraig said and then nodded, readying himself. “Again.”
Ulric laughed, and even Iris could see the gleam in Padraig’s
