Full passage
Their settlement stood above a narrow inlet on the northern coast of Bute, looking across the Kyles towards Cowal. The family lived in a hall of timber and stone with a byre at one end. Since the Treaty of Perth, men claiming the Scottish king’s authority had arrived more often with written demands. Cathal, about thirty, knew their demands chiefly by the arguments they caused at home. His brother Niall was six years older and would inherit the house. That morning, Niall stood in the yard watching Cathal mend a cracked oar with pitch and linen binding.
‘You used too much,’ Niall said.
Cathal did not look up. ‘It will hold.’
‘That was not what I said.’
‘No. It seldom is.’
The boys nearby, Niall’s sons, stopped carrying peat and watched with open interest.
Niall’s eyes narrowed. ‘Careful.’
Cathal wound the binding tighter. ‘It cracked because Aodhán took the boat out in crosswind after I told him not to.’
Aodhán, the elder of Niall’s sons, reddened. He was fourteen, lean, proud, and eager to be thought a man before his hands had learned steadiness.
Niall glanced at the boy. ‘Is that so?’
Aodhán looked at the ground. ‘The wind changed.’
‘Wind does that,’ Cathal said.
Niall’s mouth tightened. He glanced at Aodhán, who had not yet raised his eyes from the yard.
‘You will take the goats up past the black ridge,’ Niall said to Aodhán. ‘And you will thank your uncle for keeping your foolishness from drowning more than timber.’
Aodhán muttered something that might have been thanks.
‘Louder, lad. Let your father hear you,’ Cathal said.
‘Thank you, Uncle.’
‘There now. You may live to be wise yet.’
The younger boys laughed. Aodhán stalked away with his dignity in ruins.
Niall waited until they were alone before he spoke again.
‘You need not shame him.’
‘Better shame than a grave.’
‘You have no sons. You speak easily.’
The words landed harder than Niall intended. Cathal felt them, though he did not show it at once. He turned the oar and smoothed the binding with his thumb.
‘I speak because I have buried enough men who thought water could be argued with.’
Niall exhaled through his nose. ‘Aye.’
The house door opened.
Their father stood in the threshold.
Old Cathal mac Ruairidh, called Cathal the Grey since before his hair had fully earned it, leaned heavily on a carved stick. Age had thinned him, but not softened him. His back had bent; his voice had not. He wore a cloak despite the mildness of the day, and the skin around his eyes had yellowed with sickness. Yet when he looked over the yard, men still straightened.
‘Niall,’ he said.
Niall crossed to him at once. ‘Father?’
‘They are coming before dusk.’
Cathal rose from the oar. ‘Who?’
The old man’s eyes moved to him. ‘Domhnall Dubh’s men.’
Niall muttered and stopped when his father looked at him.
Old Cathal stepped down into the yard. ‘He wants an answer.’
‘Then give him the same one,’ Cathal said.
Niall turned. ‘You do not even know the question.’
‘I know who asks it.’
‘That is not enough.’
‘It is often plenty.’
Niall’s face darkened. ‘This is exactly why Father called me, not you.’
Old Cathal lifted his hand. The brothers fell silent.
‘You will both hear it,’ the old man said. ‘Better quarrel now than after strangers cross our threshold.’
They followed him inside.
The hall smelt of peat smoke, hides, salt fish, and damp wool. A long fire burned low in the hearth trench. Above it hung blackened pots. Spears rested along one wall, not displayed as ornaments but kept within reach because any house too poor for guards must make its walls remember violence. Near the far end, old Cathal lowered himself onto the bench that had been his since his own father died.
Niall remained standing.
Cathal leaned against the doorpost.
Their mother had been dead three winters, but the house still carried traces of her order. Baskets hung where she had hung them. The good knife was kept where her hand had known to reach. A strip of faded cloth, blue once, perhaps, tied a bundle of herbs above the hearth. No one had moved it.
Old Cathal looked from one son to the other.
‘Domhnall Dubh claims Mairead nic Ruairidh is under false shelter.’
Cathal’s eyes sharpened. ‘False?’
‘He says her late father’s grazing right in the north was surrendered before his death. He says she carries no claim worth honouring.’
‘And does she?’
Niall answered before their father could. ‘A claim, perhaps. Proof, no.’
‘There is witness,’ the old man said.
‘There are old men’s memories,’ Niall replied. ‘And Brother Colmán’s tongue. That may satisfy a hearth. It will not satisfy a lord’s court if Domhnall brings sealed testimony.’
Cathal pushed himself from the doorpost. ‘Sealed by whom?’
Niall looked at him.
Cathal gave a harsh laugh. ‘By men who will eat from Domhnall’s hand this winter?’
‘Lower your voice.’
‘Why? Will the seals hear me?’
Niall stepped closer. ‘Mock parchment if you like. It is still parchment. Men who hold land now listen to clerks more than grandmothers.’