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“I am sorry to hear that, lord,” Neacal said.

“Thank ye. I was with him when he passed. I brought his body home to bury him. Ye’re invited to the wake and the funeral tomorrow. Please, come to Dundail.”

“Of course we’ll come, lord,” Murdina said and squeezed his arm. “Do ye need anything?”

“Yes, I was hoping to buy yer fine uisge for the wake.”

“Oh, aye,” Neacal said. “This year it turned out especially well. How much do ye need?”

“Two, three casks if ye have that many.”

“Frangean, come with me,” Murdina said. “We’ll look, lord.”

“Thank ye.”

Murdina and Frangean went back into the house and Neacal patted the horse’s neck.

“’Tis verra good we have ye, lord—a young, strong warrior. We need ye in these times of trouble. Have ye heard of the Sassenach troops lurking around?”

Ian’s back chilled, and his shoulders tensed.

“Aye. I met some on my way here.”

“Ye must bury yer father, of course. But forgive me for asking, will ye protect us from them? Do ye have a plan? Because whatever ye need from the MacFilibs, we can give ye.”

Ian’s mouth dried. How was he going to tell him he didn’t have a plan of defense, nor did he intend to raise a sword again in his life?

Frangean appeared with a cask in his hands and carried it to the cart.

“Aye, here’s good. I thank ye, lad,” Ian said.

“Ma found two,” he said.

“Aye, I’ll take them.”

Frangean nodded, a gleam of adoration in his eyes, then turned and walked back into the house.

“What do ye say, lord?” Neacal insisted.

Ian stepped back and threw a glance at the horse. “I canna think of it yet, Neacal.”

The man raised his hands, palms to Ian. “Aye, I understand, lord. Forgive me. ’Tis just, we’re all worried, hearing what the Sassenachs do around here. Kill and rape and plunder. Burn farms. Slaughter livestock.”

Ian’s stomach tightened. Had he been whole, he wouldn’t have hesitated. If his people needed him, he’d be there.

But he couldn’t. No man would die on his sword again. He’d promised himself.

Frangean appeared with the second cask and carried it to the cart.

“How much do I owe ye, Neacal.”

The man waved his hand. “Nothing, lord. We regret yer father’s demise.”

“Nae. Please. I insist. He’d want that.”

Neacal hesitated. “Aye. Thank ye. Four shillings will be enough.”

Ian laid the coins in Neacal’s hand and quickly climbed onto the cart, hurrying to avoid more questions he wasn’t ready to answer.