Page 11 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

T he next few days kept Astrid too busy to meet with Cormac.

She and her mother spent dawn till dusk scraping together enough workers and materials to build temporary houses for their influx of guests.

After dinner, she collapsed onto her bed in an exhausted pile of stress and worry.

If she didn’t start preparing Cormac, he wouldn’t have any real advantage over the men who arrived in ten days.

Five days after Cormac interrupted their breakfast with his shockingly thoughtful speech, Astrid decided that no matter how tired she felt, she would go to his room and start teaching him the rules and expectations of the games. But that was hours from now.

At present, Astrid sat at the table in the hall with ledgers spread and a pile of counting stones.

“Alright,” she rubbed her throbbing temples. “If he’s invited fifteen men, and they each bring at least two companions, we’ll need to feed an additional forty-five mouths for over a month.”

“I’m far less concerned over the food than I am the ale,” her mother remarked, shuffling the papers until she found the one she wanted. “Our next shipment won’t arrive for weeks, and I’ve only been buying enough for the household and our guests.”

“But the ale’s the most important thing!” Astrid grabbed the parchment from her mother, as though staring at the numbers herself might alter them. “Sitric will kill us if we run out of ale.”

“Oh, I’m well aware, dear. And that’s just the beginning of our logistical problems. Even working as we’ve been, I’m concerned it’s too much for just the two of us.”

That gave Astrid an idea. Cormac’s wry comment from nearly a sennight ago—that perhaps she should get to know Sláine better—had been bouncing guiltily through her mind ever since. She hated that he had been the one to suggest it, but it was a good point nonetheless.

“What?” her mother asked, clearly sensing the shift in her mood.

“We could ask Catrin and Sláine to help,” she suggested. “It would alleviate some of our problems and give us the opportunity to see how they handle household responsibilities.”

In response, Gormla called Bodil, the nearest serving girl, over to her. “Find the princesses and ask them to join us here,” she ordered.

As Bodil hurried off to do her mistress’s bidding, Astrid set down the ledger. “Alehouses,” she thought aloud. “We could use the alehouses. They never run out.”

“Yes!” Gormla agreed, pointing at her with a grin. “Hurry down there now and ask about their stores. We can discuss precise measures when you return.”

“Why me?” Astrid protested, standing anyway.

“You’re younger and faster,” Gormla answered. “I’ll start in on the meals while you’re gone.”

Without another word of argument, Astrid left the hall and headed down the hill into Dyflin toward the alehouse.

News of the coming tournament already buzzed about the town around her, palpable excitement tinged the air.

As she walked, however, the reality of her situation sank in further with every step.

They were ordering food.

She was securing a steady supply of ale at this very moment.

This tournament was really happening, and that meant that she would really be married, unless she finally got a plan into place aside from simply refusing the marriage.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about it, she certainly had.

Night and day, she’d contemplated just how she could get out of this ordeal, but no answers had come.

For the first time in her memory, Astrid couldn’t solve a problem.

And that, in and of itself, posed an entirely different sort of problem.

Perhaps it was because this particular problem was so close to her. Not only was marriage deeply personal, but it also held far-reaching consequences that would determine the course of her life.

Some of her ideas had potential, but the strategies of them yet eluded her.

Some of them were as far-fetched as the notion of marrying anyone but a fellow Ostman had once been.

One of her favorite ideas had been simply getting on a ship herself and sailing far north in search of her sister.

It had been many years since Gytha had married the King of Noregr and left for the northern reaches of the world.

Since the day Astrid had learned of her sister’s betrothal all those years ago, she’d been envious, and she had decided that she, too, would marry an Ostman and join her sister in Noregr.

That her brother didn’t understand her desire, would not even entertain it, was slowly breaking her heart.

And without her heart working toward her problem, it felt an insurmountable challenge.

For all her life, he’d been her unshakeable ally, her supporter in the face of all her problems. But now he was the one creating those problems for her.

Another, deeper fear in the back of her mind, was the possibility that she could end up akin to her dear cousin Eva, who had been traded as a hostage following the battle they lost to Brian last winter.

Astrid knew well the isolation Eva suffered, and her cousin was not even an Ostman.

Eva was a daughter of éire from a long line of Gaelic kings and princes.

Though Eva embraced and enjoyed Astrid’s heritage, she was shunned as an outcast solely for having been on the losing side of the battle.

It was not a stretch for Astrid to imagine herself in a similar situation, but instead of a hostage of war, she was the hostage of a marriage.

Long before Astrid reached the alehouse, she saw from a distance the lowest plain at the foot of the city.

It was one of the few plains surrounding Dyflin that didn’t regularly flood, and was not constantly a mucky bog.

Instead of a field of swaying grasses and wildflowers, a flurry of activity filled the space.

Countless men carried piles of lumber into the clearing, while others converted them into planks for building.

Even in the cool mists of winter, the men worked so hard that many wore a shirt with no tunic or cloak.

She watched them as she descended the hill from her homestead, amazed that construction had already begun so soon after the orders were given.

Cormac and the other Fianna worked among them, drawing her attention.

Without giving it much thought, Astrid veered from her course toward the alehouse, taking a narrow path that led straight out of town through the side gate and toward the field where the men worked.

Cormac caught sight of her as she strode across the field toward him. Looking askance between his men, who had not yet seemed to notice her, he walked over to meet her.

“Can I help you, princess?”

“I was just surprised to find the Fianna doing anything other than their usual routine.” And also now questioning why she had even come out here. She hadn’t much to say really.

“We heard you were in need of help, and so we offered it. And it serves as an adequate honing of our strength and skills.”

“Well, thank you,” she replied awkwardly. What on earth was wrong with her? She shifted uncomfortably, realizing that this was probably the moment to take her leave.

Before she could do so, Cormac took one step closer lowering his voice. “Are you alright?” he asked. “You seem…less intense than usual.”

Astrid regarded him with suspicion. “Why are you being nice to me?”

“You have yet to attack, so I have no reason to defend. I’m actually quite a nice person, you know.”

“Nice people don’t have to tell you that.” She resisted the urge to smile at her jab. It irritated her how much she enjoyed sparring with him.

He crossed his arms over his chest, the impressive amount of muscle drawing her attention for a moment too long. She was grateful he didn’t tease her about it—most other men certainly would have.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he tried again.

She frowned, grasping for any sort of reason to have sought him out. “I still haven’t figured out a solution to my problem of avoiding marrying you.”

“You know, coming from just about anyone else, that would really hurt.”

“I think you’re right, that I need a plan to avoid my brother just forcing the next-in-line onto me if you refuse,” she grumbled. “If I don’t come up with something, he’s going to foist one of them onto me.”

“Perhaps that’s the solution, then,” Cormac mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and squinting into the distance. He kept his dark beard much shorter than most men, hardly longer than the sharp edges of his face.

“Letting him destroy my future?”

“Giving him a reason not to,” he corrected gently. “You’ve told me what you don’t want in a husband. You’ve rejected countless options he’s offered you. Try giving him the names of men you would marry, just as you suggested he do with Brian.”

“That’s—” Astrid caught herself mid-denial, “actually not a terrible idea.”

He shrugged, drawing her attention once more to his impressive stature. “It’s worth trying, at least.”

Indeed, it was. And even if that didn’t work, it gave Astrid a different perspective on the problem. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, princess.”

A tendril of heat threaded through her at the intimate tone of his voice, at the way he caressed the words. She took several steps away, putting distance between them. “I should get to the alehouse.”

He smiled at her—which did nothing to quell her alarming reaction to him—and returned to carrying the heavy timber beams.

Cormac was, perhaps, not as devious as she’d believed.

Maybe he wasn’t always out to ruin her family.

And, she grudgingly admitted, he’d been rather helpful just now.

But he was a Gaelic prince, sworn to her enemy Brian.

Even if he wasn’t the worst man to marry—which she still hadn’t decided yet—she couldn’t actually marry him.

She’d live the rest of her days surrounded by folk who despised her and her culture.

Maybe he wasn’t awful, but he certainly wasn’t for her.

Astrid returned from the alehouse before dinner, surprised at just how much ale Maeve had in stock.

It would cost a fortune to keep everyone well-watered for a month, but it was possible at least. The moment she returned, Astrid tracked down Sitric.

She didn’t want to wait to put Cormac’s idea into action.

She found him in the hall, meeting with his warriors to determine the games and rules for the tournament.

“I have a solution,” she announced.

“Do I have a problem?” Sitric asked.

“What if I choose three men that I would wish to marry? Perhaps we could find some common ground—”

His cheeks tightened in a way that told Astrid he wasn’t in agreement with her new plan. “I’ve already invited everyone who is to compete.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Astrid. The competition will decide the marriage. But perhaps the results will be to your liking.”

Astrid bit her tongue to keep from arguing. It was clear his mind was made up, and there was no use continuing to walk down that particular path. Normally, Astrid would’ve panicked.

But this time she wasn’t walking alone.