I am enjoying a spot of sunshine that warms my doorstep this afternoon. Having spent the morning gathering tender nettles, coltsfoot and fresh bracken, I rest my back against the doorpost while I sort through the pulled plants. Nettle soup will be a good spring tonic for Ceirdwyn and me. I will make enough to share with the good bard who has been so kind to us over the winter.

When I think of MacMorna, I smile. He always brought us more than enough, whether it be firewood, meat, or ale. We never lacked for anything. Now it is time to return some of his generosity. My thoughts turn to his young wife, Verctissa. She must have birthed their wee one by now and I wonder if she and the babe are doing well.

A familiar sound - Thorn's deep voice - interrupts my daydreams. I look up to see the wolfhound and Ceirdwyn racing towards the hut. It seems he is letting her win the race but then he puts on a burst of speed at the very last. It is a joy to see Ceirdwyn so exhuberant and happy. She collapses, giggling, beside Thorn, who has already greeted me with his usual carefree affection, knocking the carefully sorted baskets of greens into one merry mess.

Ceirdwyn and I scold him gently. Together we scoop everything up and begin again. No sooner do we settle down to this task when another runner comes over the field. I shade my eyes against the sun to see who it is.

A messenger from the keep arrives to tell me that I am needed to attend to a man who is suffering from sore ribs and a festering wound on his brow that did not heal properly. Ceirdwyn hisses softly. She stands suddenly still as a stone and stares hard at the messenger.

"It can't be," she whispers to herself so softly that only I hear it. Her fingers weave and unweave in shaky knots.

"Who is this man?" I ask the messenger. "Why was I not called to treat this wound before it got this bad?"

The messenger, just a boy, shrugs. "He was brought in from the village, lady healer, with his hands tied behind his back. I saw him come through the gates with the war chief, the spearman and two others. D'ya think he might be one of that band of rogues they were chasing?"

It must be Lorcann! Until now, perhaps Ceirdwyn hoped her mother had dealt him a death blow when she split his head open, defending her children from his murderous rampage. But he must have survived. I put a hand on Ceirdwyn's arm to steady her. She struggles for a moment, then swallows hard against her tears and stands tall.

"He will finally pay for what he has done," I mutter, unsure of what else to say to put her at ease.

"No honor price will bring back my father," Ceirdwyn replies in a voice as cold as ice.

I step into the hut and grab the pouch that holds an assortment of balms, cures and potions. Before hurrying off with the messenger, I hug Ceirdwyn but cannot think of any words that will comfort her. Somehow I manage to smile. "Keep an eye on Thorn until I get back. I shouldn't be away for long."

A cloud shadows out the sunshine as I trot down the path towards the keep.