Page 13 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

A strid’s irritation flared as she watched a group of horses stop behind their seats at the edge of the field nearest the housing.

“Did you invite someone else?” Astrid asked Sitric under her breath.

“No,” he answered. “No one else should be here.”

“Then who is that?” She motioned with her head toward the men now dismounting.

Sitric turned, his pale brow furrowing. “That looks—it can’t be.”

“Who? It can’t be who ?” she demanded again.

“It looks like the King of Connachta.” Sitric nudged their mother beside him, turning her attention also to the man walking toward them. “I’ve only seen him once, but I recall he had the same scar over his left brow.”

“Why is he here?”

He shrugged, turning back to check the progress of the game in front of them. “He shouldn’t be. He knows he’s not welcome after the battle last winter.”

If her brother guessed correctly and the man was, indeed, the King of Connachta, he’d been one of the kings who fought alongside Brian to defeat her brother and sack Dyflin. Though the man’s alliance with Brian had been temporary, the damage to her opinion of him was permanent.

Astrid rose with a huff to greet the guests.

She needed to pay attention to Cormac’s performance in this match in order to offer advice and insight on his opponents and how he might beat them in the next challenge.

In the few minutes Astrid had seen, Cormac appeared distracted and confused, which surprised her.

By all accounts he was a man of great skill and athleticism, and such a game should be easy for him.

Concern over her choice of champion threaded her thoughts as she went to discover the identity of this uninvited guest. Her mother and her brother followed on her heels, both seeming as irritated as she felt.

“Greetings, great King Sitric of the Ostmen of Dyflin,” the man with a scarred brow called.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” Sitric replied, his signature grin nowhere in sight, “for I am not privy to your name and title.”

“It’s been many years and you were but a boy when last we looked upon one another,” the man said gruffly.

“I am Cahill, King of Connachta, and this is my eldest son, Teague, my successor. I wish for him to compete in your games, that he might win the hand of your sister and our two great kingdoms can unite.”

Her brother went on to reply, but Astrid missed most of what he said when her mother nudged her from behind. Astrid turned her head ever so slightly as her mother whispered in her ear.

“Cahill is an enemy of Brian still,” she told Astrid. “He would ally with us when we rebel again. Teague might not be a terrible choice of husband for you.”

Astrid nodded her understanding, but did not much care for that insight.

The thought of marrying a man who’d attacked Dyflin barely a year ago felt as much a betrayal of her people as marrying a Gael—and Teague was both.

Though, she realized with horror, Cormac and his brothers had likely numbered among Brian’s men in the battle.

Allegiances on this island shifted like the winds.

It took her several moments of not really listening to the conversation to reach a second, equally unwelcome realization of Cahill. If Cahill was the king of Connachta, and Cormac and his brothers were princes of Connachta, then this must be their father and brother.

Perhaps that was why he’d been so distracted.

Maybe he’d caught sight of them just as the game began.

That must be it, she decided, unwilling to believe anything else could cause trouble for her champion.

The thought that Cormac would be competing against his own brother, and that she could potentially end up marrying Teague instead of Cormac made her squirm in discomfort. She didn’t like that one bit.

The more she considered it, the more she realized that yet another factor tallied against Teague as a potential husband: the location of his kingdom, deep in the heart of Gaelic éire.

There were no nearby Ostman settlements.

She would have virtually no contact with her own people.

In the Kingdom of Connachta, Astrid would be in complete and utter isolation, and likely unwelcome.

“We’d be happy to have you join us,” she heard her brother say when she finally turned her attention back to the conversation with the king. “Please, this way.”

Cahill must have said something important and convincing for her brother to change his manner so swiftly, and to welcome to the contest a man who’d battled against them so recently.

Once again, her brother proved himself too kind a soul to be king.

Astrid would’ve turned the lout out before he could draw breath.

Sitric called one of his men to go and join the game alongside Teague, so that the numbers were still even on each team. In Astrid’s mind, it mattered nearly as little as the teams themselves. The game was more a test of each man’s individual strength more than it was any sort of effort at unity.

With the business of the uninvited guest settled, Astrid returned with her mother and brother to their seats atop small wooden chairs on the side of the field of play.

Most of the household had come down out of the holding to watch the first match of the tournament.

The game tested strength and stamina, a method to measure each man on his own amidst chaos, and lasted until Sitric called a halt.

Not knowing when the match ended would put the men’s strength of will to the test as much as their physical might.

Finally able to return her attention to the game, Astrid searched the men to find Cormac so that she could track his performance.

Though he wore a loose-fitted tunic, the muscles in his arms swelled even beneath his clothing, and he was one of only a handful of the men on the field with such impressive bulk.

Not that she ought to be noticing such things, especially since she wasn’t actually looking for a husband.

Just as her attention settled comfortably back into the game, her brother nudged her with his elbow beside her.

“I wanted to let you know,” he told her, “that you have a part to play in all this, aside from helping judge the victor of the competition, of course.”

“And what might that be?”

“I need you to set aside time to speak with each man. Your assessment of their characters will be an important part of my decision. In the end, I won’t have you saddled with a dishonorable man.”

Astrid tore her gaze from the chaos of the field so that she could look at her brother.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and she meant it.

She may not relish the idea of setting aside time to meet with over a dozen different men and assess their characters, especially as she didn’t plan to marry any of them, but she appreciated the care in her brother’s request.

Assuming he’d finished, she turned yet again back to the game. Cormac hit the ball to his opponent across the field, the only man who matched him in size and strength. The man caught it, and Cormac charged at him down the field to try to wrest it from his grasp.

Astrid scooted to the edge of her seat.

Cormac’s shoulder slammed into the man’s chest, knocking him flat on his back with a groan and a thud.

She cheered, her hands raising of their own accord. Beside her, someone cleared their throat. She turned to find her mother and brother both staring at her in confusion and surprise. She shrugged, nodding toward the field.

“It was a good hit.”

A cheeky smirk rose on her brother’s face, earning him a good smack on the shoulder.

He chuckled, and they all returned their attention to the knattleikr game.

Perhaps he really could win. He was certainly one of the largest of the men and in the best shape by her measure.

Maybe he could do it. Maybe he really could win.

Astrid certainly hoped so, for her future depended on it.

Astrid fell deeper and deeper into the match—into every sprint, every swing of the bat, every movement across the field—until her awareness was naught but the game itself.

In particular, the experience of one specific player on the field.

Until, of course, her brother nudged her again.

This time the glare she turned to him could have turned a man to stone, but he’d long since become immune to such looks from her.

She supposed he thought they were some sort of jest, but she was deadly serious and seriously annoyed.

Could she not simply watch the game in peace?

“Yes, brother?”

“I just thought that you might like to know an interesting fact I learned about one of the players.” He paused, as though expecting some sort of reaction from her.

Realizing that wasn’t forthcoming, he continued.

“It seems purely by happenstance, I’ve invited someone who fulfills many of your desires in a husband. ”

That got her attention. “Oh?”

“Do you see that man?” He pointed to the mess of bodies in the center of the field.

“I see about twenty men, brother. Which do you mean?” It was impossible to tell to whom he pointed.

“The man wrestling Cormac.”

The mention of the warrior’s name sent a shiver through her—an odd reaction, indeed. She found him then, the tall, broad man with sandy brown hair.

“That man, Cairell, is a prince of the Dál Fiatach. And, just like our mother, is the son of an Ostman slave and a Gaelic king,” he explained.

“Really?” That genuinely surprised Astrid. A half-Ostman was much closer to what she wanted in a husband. “That is interesting,” she admitted.

A sharp intake of breath from everyone along the sidelines alerted Astrid that something exciting must be happening in the match. She and Sitric both turned toward the field. Cormac laid flat on his back, clearly having been knocked over by Cairell. If he didn’t get up soon, he’d lose this bout.

Astrid’s hands gripped the edge of her seat, squeezing as she leaned forward, as though she could somehow help him solve this dilemma. “Come on,” she groaned through gritted teeth.

Cormac moved his legs and his arms, still holding the ball at least, but for how much longer?

Cairell raised his free arm. He was going to slam it down to try to free the ball, she realized.

Astrid’s breath caught as she prepared for the impact.