The child sat outside one of the cottages, picking weeds from a small garden. With cinnamon hair and deep green eyes, a ready smile creased the boy’s face. His young arms had a light tan from the sunlight and strong muscles that had seen a great deal of use. From the waist up, he was no different from any other boy. But his right leg was gone, leaving only a stump above his knee. ‘What is your name?’ Connor asked, keeping his gaze away from the boy’s missing leg. ‘My name is Whelon Ó Duinne. And you are one of the great warriors.’ The child’s face lit up with eagerness. Connor held up his bandaged hands, feeling uneasy beneath Whelon’s excitement. ‘I was once.’ ‘Can you train me?’ Connor avoided the answer he did not wish to give. ‘Why do you want to be a soldier?’ ‘To fight the Norman enemy, of course.’ ‘Not every Norman is an enemy,’ Connor said, thinking of his brothers’ wives, Genevieve and Isabel.
