‘Don’t take it out on
me
.’
The man said nothing, and even Rory, walking at the horse’s side, could only shoot me a dumb glance of sympathy.
I didn’t like having Sionnach at my back, and a sword at his. He might think he could thump Rory with impunity, but he needn’t try it on with me. I hated his unsmiling face and his
surly silence; I hated
him.
I was furious with Rory for getting me into this in the first place; and I did not want to go wherever it was we were going. Over and over I wished myself back
at The Paddocks, with nothing to fear but Groper Marty’s fingers and Sheena’s tongue.
Funny that despite the cold and the wet and the terror, I wasn’t persuading myself.
‘Hannah,’ muttered Rory, tugging at my leg. ‘There, look.’
I tore my gaze from the horse’s mane and made myself look in the direction of his nod. I sucked in a breath of surprise. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it
wasn’t this compact walled town. It rambled over a craggy headland as if it had grown there all by itself, the stone walls following every swell and dip of the land. Silver bays glittered to
the north and south, and the western walls rose from a cliff that fell sheer to the sea below. It was hard to tell where the building ended and the land began.
Below the landward side ragged sheep and stocky black cattle cropped the grass under a summer sun, but a good part of the grazing land had been taken over by what looked like a
twenty-five-a-side football match. One woman put her foot on the ball to pause the game while the players watched us in silence.
‘Oh, yes,’ Sionnach growled, ‘You’re in disgrace, Rory Bhan.’
The guard at the gate – despite his ordinary jeans and torn jumper I don’t know what else you’d call him, with his sword on his back and his lethal stare – signalled us
through with a jerk of his head. Inside the walls, when I stopped staring nervously backwards at him, the first thing I noticed was the depressing absence of mobile phone masts. The only sign of
civilisation was a cluster of wind turbines circling in the sea breeze.
Oh God.
Sionnach nudged the horse into a trot to climb a winding unpaved alley, its hooves ringing on bare stone, so when it came to a dead halt I was flung forward, and barely caught myself from
sliding humiliatingly down its neck. Rory didn’t look at me. He was staring at something, with an odd mixture of dread, defiance and adoration.
In front of a central hall, a stream was channelled through a courtyard, pooling in a stone basin at the centre. A man was stooped over it with his back to us, stripped to the waist and scooping
water over his face. I was glad he couldn’t see me because I couldn’t take my eyes off his back. I’d never seen anything like it.
There was a tattoo on his left shoulder, intricately beautiful knotwork tapering to a point on his bicep, but it was distorted by hideous scars that covered his whole back. He looked like the
scratching post of a giant cat but at least those ugly gouges looked old and healed. The two puckered holes between his shoulder blades were vicious and raw, as if they might split open any second
and bleed him dry. I swear I could almost see blood and nerves and shattered veins moving beneath the thin chafed skin. They looked like raw pain made into flesh, so they did.
‘I find it beyond incredible,’ said the man, ‘that you would do this again.’
Propped against the horse’s shoulder, Rory swallowed hard. ‘Dad…’
‘Please don’t say you’re sorry. You lie like that, I don’t know if I could stop myself hitting you.’ Rory’s father stood up straight, easing his shoulders.
Reaching for the shirt beside him he pulled it over his head, raked long fingers through his black hair, and turned.
The bones of his face were as sharp as knives, his eyes in their shadowy sockets grey like Rory’s, though that was as close as they came to a family resemblance. These ones
me
.’
The man said nothing, and even Rory, walking at the horse’s side, could only shoot me a dumb glance of sympathy.
I didn’t like having Sionnach at my back, and a sword at his. He might think he could thump Rory with impunity, but he needn’t try it on with me. I hated his unsmiling face and his
surly silence; I hated
him.
I was furious with Rory for getting me into this in the first place; and I did not want to go wherever it was we were going. Over and over I wished myself back
at The Paddocks, with nothing to fear but Groper Marty’s fingers and Sheena’s tongue.
Funny that despite the cold and the wet and the terror, I wasn’t persuading myself.
‘Hannah,’ muttered Rory, tugging at my leg. ‘There, look.’
I tore my gaze from the horse’s mane and made myself look in the direction of his nod. I sucked in a breath of surprise. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it
wasn’t this compact walled town. It rambled over a craggy headland as if it had grown there all by itself, the stone walls following every swell and dip of the land. Silver bays glittered to
the north and south, and the western walls rose from a cliff that fell sheer to the sea below. It was hard to tell where the building ended and the land began.
Below the landward side ragged sheep and stocky black cattle cropped the grass under a summer sun, but a good part of the grazing land had been taken over by what looked like a
twenty-five-a-side football match. One woman put her foot on the ball to pause the game while the players watched us in silence.
‘Oh, yes,’ Sionnach growled, ‘You’re in disgrace, Rory Bhan.’
The guard at the gate – despite his ordinary jeans and torn jumper I don’t know what else you’d call him, with his sword on his back and his lethal stare – signalled us
through with a jerk of his head. Inside the walls, when I stopped staring nervously backwards at him, the first thing I noticed was the depressing absence of mobile phone masts. The only sign of
civilisation was a cluster of wind turbines circling in the sea breeze.
Oh God.
Sionnach nudged the horse into a trot to climb a winding unpaved alley, its hooves ringing on bare stone, so when it came to a dead halt I was flung forward, and barely caught myself from
sliding humiliatingly down its neck. Rory didn’t look at me. He was staring at something, with an odd mixture of dread, defiance and adoration.
In front of a central hall, a stream was channelled through a courtyard, pooling in a stone basin at the centre. A man was stooped over it with his back to us, stripped to the waist and scooping
water over his face. I was glad he couldn’t see me because I couldn’t take my eyes off his back. I’d never seen anything like it.
There was a tattoo on his left shoulder, intricately beautiful knotwork tapering to a point on his bicep, but it was distorted by hideous scars that covered his whole back. He looked like the
scratching post of a giant cat but at least those ugly gouges looked old and healed. The two puckered holes between his shoulder blades were vicious and raw, as if they might split open any second
and bleed him dry. I swear I could almost see blood and nerves and shattered veins moving beneath the thin chafed skin. They looked like raw pain made into flesh, so they did.
‘I find it beyond incredible,’ said the man, ‘that you would do this again.’
Propped against the horse’s shoulder, Rory swallowed hard. ‘Dad…’
‘Please don’t say you’re sorry. You lie like that, I don’t know if I could stop myself hitting you.’ Rory’s father stood up straight, easing his shoulders.
Reaching for the shirt beside him he pulled it over his head, raked long fingers through his black hair, and turned.
The bones of his face were as sharp as knives, his eyes in their shadowy sockets grey like Rory’s, though that was as close as they came to a family resemblance. These ones
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