Page 19 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

T he sun rose hot the following morning, providing enough warmth to offset the chill that gripped the air these days.

Astrid pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders as she strode across the tournament field toward the temporary halls they’d constructed for their competitors.

The breakfasting hour had not yet come to an end, and Astrid hoped to catch Cairell at his morning meal so she could finish these cursed interviews.

He was the only one she hadn’t managed to meet with two nights prior.

She knew that she’d been putting off this particular conversation, though she couldn’t imagine why.

As her brother had pointed out that first day, Cairell may be her best chance at a marriage to a fellow Ostman.

Perhaps, instead of avoiding it, Astrid should take this interview more seriously.

And, perhaps, that was precisely why she’d been avoiding it.

She shouldn’t want Cormac. She couldn’t want Cormac.

And yet, all she’d thought about since they stood together in the snow yesterday was the feel of his hand on her cheek, warm against the bite of the winter air, and the look in his eyes as he stared into hers.

Gods, she’d have sworn he was about to kiss her.

Even worse, her treacherous body had wanted him to kiss her. Shoving that appalling revelation into the back of her mind, she opened the doors to the hall where Cairell quartered.

These halls, as they were temporary, didn’t have large central hearths like the ones in their holding.

Instead braziers lined the narrow corridors around the edge of the hall’s center, casting a soft orange glow on the room.

Compared with the chaos of the past few days, the halls on the gaming field felt oddly quiet, empty enough that the servants’ footfalls echoed hollowly between the timbered walls.

A few folk sat at the tables finishing up their morning meals. Astrid had skipped her own, with little appetite this particular morn. All she wanted was to get this interview out of the way, and to get Cormac out of her mind.

Just as she’d hoped, she found Cairell sitting at one of the tables breaking his fast.

“May I join you?” she asked, walking over and standing opposite him.

He grinned up at her, his thick, golden brown beard wiggling as he did so. “I wondered when I’d get my chance with you,” he replied, gesturing that she should indeed take the seat across from him.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to meet with you the other night,” she began.

“It had simply grown too late, and I’m afraid I wouldn’t have been a very good conversationalist.” Astrid did not mention that she could have very well found him yesterday, but instead had gone on a walk with Cormac and nearly kissed him.

The very thought of his name brought a tightness to her core, a sensation that had become irritatingly frequent these days.

“Did you see the snow yesterday?” Cairell asked.

“I did,” Astrid replied with a small smile. She should be the one leading this conversation, yet her thoughts continued to return to Cormac, to the way he looked at her. His eyes fiercely blue, their intent perfectly clear.

She needed to get him out of her mind.

And Cairell may be her best chance of doing just that.

“It was a lovely surprise for this time of year,” she added, realizing her answer had been insufficient.

“So what manner of questions have you been asking the men? I admit, I’ve been curious as to what these discussions might entail.”

“It depends on the man,” Astrid told him. “Often I ask of their family and how their life is, where they came from, the arrangement of their keep or their town.”

Astrid also made a point of including a question or two to gauge how they might treat a wife.

She found that their thoughts on female relatives were often quite telling, but she liked to prod them more deliberately to see what sort of reaction it got her.

The last thing Astrid wanted, aside from leaving her home and going somewhere far from her own people, was to marry a man who might mistreat her.

“And what manner of questions do you have for me, then,” he prompted, taking a bite of bacon.

Astrid already determined that Cairell was not a man with violent tendencies toward women.

Sometimes she spoke with a man and could tell instantly that he could be cruel when his temper was prodded.

But the man before her showed a great deal of patience, for Astrid knew that her mind was far afield and she’d not been a good conversation partner thus far.

“My questions for you are different from those I’ve asked any other of the men,” she replied.

“It’s because of my mother, isn’t it?” he asked. “She came with me, excited at the prospect of spending time in a settlement of her own people.”

His words were answer enough for one of Astrid’s questions. Apparently his home was not a settlement of her people, as she’d hoped, or anything close to it.

“Should I assume from that statement that there are no other Ostmen in your homeland?”

He shook his head, the grin slipping from his face. “I wish I could tell you otherwise, but it’s only my mother and a few others.”

“My grandmother was an Ostman servant to a Gaelic king,” she told him.

“I had heard that, lady, and I thought it an interesting connection between us.”

It was, indeed, and Astrid already found him far more promising than any of the other men, aside from her chosen champion.

“Do any of them speak Norr?na ?” she asked, hoping that perhaps, even if there was a dearth of representation, she may at least have fellow Ostmen with whom to share the language. That would make it far easier to raise her children speaking it as she wished to do.

Cairell grinned, this time setting down his breakfast and giving her his undivided attention. “Aye, all the Ostmen do,” he replied in the language.

Astrid straightened in surprise. Perhaps there was some hope of preserving her culture after all. Her mission completed and all her questions answered, Astrid took her leave, wishing him well in the games to come. She had heard quite enough by that point to make her assessment.

He was a fairly pleasant fellow, similar to her brother in disposition with his proclivity for grinning and the odd wry comment.

Unfortunately, the answers to her most pressing questions left something to be desired.

Cairell may share a heritage and a language with her, but it sounded like living in his kingdom would be nothing like living in Dyflin.

It still wouldn’t feel like home, and Astrid still ran the very real risk of a cool reception there with so few of her own people.

Her decision firmly in hand, Astrid returned to her family’s hall to find an alarming surprise awaiting her. Her brother, bent head-to-head over a hnefatafl board.

With Princess Catrin.

“How goes your game?” Astrid called, striding over to interrupt with all haste.

“She’s doing well.” Sitric sat back from the table, smiling up at Astrid. Her brother always smiled.

“It’s more difficult than I expected, given how small the board,” Catrin giggled.

“Thank you for playing with me.” He stood, straightening his red tunic and turning to Astrid. “I’m glad you’re here. I need to speak with you and mother.”

“Of course,” Astrid replied, happy to have succeeded with her interruption. “I’ll go fetch her.”

“No need,” Gormla called, rising from a couch in the far corner of the hall. “She’s already here.”

Catrin, somehow, didn’t sense that she was being dismissed.

“Could you give us a moment, dear?” Sitric asked her.

“Oh! Of course.” She bobbed a sloppy curtsy before scurrying from the hall.

Gormla joined Astrid and Sitric at the table, inspecting the game of hnefatafl underway and taking Catrin’s next move for her. “I’m not sure this can be salvaged,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“I assure you, it can’t,” Sitric laughed. “But she had fun, and she’s only just learning.”

“You need a cleverer wife than that,” Astrid told him.

“I’ve bigger problems than a wife, at present.” He paced instead of sitting, a sure sign something troubled him in spite of his good temper. “Cahill has asked for an alliance against Brian, regardless of the outcome of the tournament. What say you?”

Gormla rapped her fingers over the oaken tabletop.

Astrid couldn’t quite decide how she felt. On the one hand, a rebellion against Brian to reclaim their autonomy was exactly what she wanted. But on the other, Cahill had only recently helped Brian crush them in battle. “How much do you trust him?”

Sitric’s smile fell to a grimace. “Not even a little. Aside from his oath to Malachy, the man’s allegiance changes with the wind.”

“What did he offer, exactly?” Gormla asked.

“Men. Aid in battle. And a fair deal on trade goods.”

“And how do we know for whom his men fight?” Astrid pressed. “For all we know this could be some ploy between him and Malachy to force us under their boots instead of Brian’s.”

“I agree with Astrid,” Gormla declared. “He cannot be trusted.”

“And,” Astrid continued, the reasons piling up against Cahill, “does he have enough men for us to attack soon? If not, and if Brian discovers your secret dealings, the chance may never come. Brian won’t take such an alliance lightly should he discover it.”

Sitric stroked his long beard, still pacing. “This is why I come to you both. Ever the fonts of wisdom and insight. I shall decline his offer. And Astrid,” he looked to her pointedly, “don’t feel the need to grow close to Teague solely for politics.”

She nodded, swallowing. There was little danger of that after the events of the opening feast. Though he wasn’t a wicked man, he remained strongly in opposition to Cormac.

And, for better or for worse, Cormac was always on her mind.