Page 7 of Princess of Elm (Warriors of the Fianna #4)

A strid fastened the brooches onto her sapphire blue apron dress, one of her favorites.

Even though it didn’t match her eyes, it complimented her scarlet hair.

Most folk had blue or brown or green eyes.

A few had gray. Astrid was the only person she knew with eyes the color of honey.

Occasionally her brother told her they tinged with palest green, like the peridot gems that passed through the shipyard, but most folk told her they looked like the amber liquid that gave them mead for the long winter nights.

Smoothing her gown and checking her plaits, she opened her door to join the boisterous crowd gathering to dine.

Sitric abhorred simplicity. Aye, though they didn’t slaughter a boar for every meal, every dinner was an event regardless of the fare being served.

Upon entering the bustling hall, Astrid found it just as chaotic as she expected.

She took her seat near the end of the table beside Niamh, a skilled healer who traveled with her husband, the Fianna warrior Dallan, and served as lady’s maid to Princess Cara. With the arrival of two new princesses, even the massive trestle table now felt crowded.

Sitric sat at the head of the table near her.

Their mother held forth at the other. Across from Astrid, the eight Fianna sat shoulder-to-shoulder in a row.

She smiled to herself when she noted that Cormac had chosen the seat on the very end, furthest from her.

Perhaps her intimidation tactics held merit.

It mattered not, however, because Sitric appeared swayed by her arguments this afternoon in favor of proposing a different bride to Brian.

She’d come up with it during the course of their conversation, and it had intrigued him.

He even seemed to agree with her assessment of the two women Brian sent.

Overall, the conversation couldn’t have gone better.

Now all she had to do was continue monitoring the situation, prepared to step back in should her brother’s feelings change.

The meal was modest, not a proper feast by any means but neither was it scant.

Cod chewets and a bean and vegetable stew were the bulk of the dinner, with warm, fresh bread and a few bowls of skyr.

A low hum of chatter threaded through the room as everyone caught up on the goings-on of the past few days.

Everything went smoothly, until Princess Catrin joined the conversation shortly after the ale pitchers were refreshed.

“I hear you are looking to marry, my lord,” the young woman said boldly to Sitric. “I wondered what qualities you value in a woman?”

Down the table, Cara coughed delicately.

Astrid couldn’t have been more pleased. At this rate, she’d hardly have to interfere at all.

Sitric took the improper question in stride, ever ready for a new game. “I’m considering marriage, yes, but I wouldn’t say I’m looking for it. And as for your second query, I should like a bride who is honest and adventurous.”

“And let us not forget courageous, strong of will, and honorable,” Astrid added.

“Yes, of course,” Sitric agreed hastily. “Those as well.”

“I was surprised to hear you had never been married,” Catrin continued, undeterred. Beside her, Cara’s face flushed, her lips thinning into a tight line.

Astrid choked down a laugh, not wanting to cause any more of a scene. The ignorant princess implied that Sitric was either old or unsuitable for marriage, though Astrid doubted Catrin realized those implications.

Her brother would never wed so naive a woman, and convincing him of the problems with Sláine should prove simple.

“My brother only has thirty summers,” Astrid informed her gently. “Some men wait longer even than that to wed.”

Finally, Catrin’s face blushed to match her mortified sister’s. “Oh!” she exclaimed breathily. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Astrid, are you not of an age for your own marriage?”

Astrid’s gaze shot like an arrow toward the end of the table. Cormac’s eyes twinkled with the mischief of his calculated interruption. The lopsided smirk on his face didn’t do her temper any favors, either.

“Don’t tell me you’re interested?” she whipped back.

Cormac choked on his ale. “Not in the least. I simply wondered why Sitric here is the constant target of marriage alliances, while you appear happily unwed.”

“An interesting point, my friend,” Sitric agreed, his fingers stroking his golden beard thoughtfully. “In fact, my sister and I spoke of this very topic earlier.”

Cormac’s crooked smile grew to a victorious grin. “Did you now?”

She had a thing or two to say to him once the table cleared out.

“Aye, I feel it’s time for Astrid to wed.”

“No suitable men have presented themselves,” Astrid explained. “Like my brother, I, too, have requirements for an adequate partner.”

“Perhaps, like your brother, we can help find you a suitable match.” Cormac’s eyes never left hers, spearing her in place. Challenging her.

Her heart pounded, its volume rising alongside her ire. “I doubt it.”

“Brian has many sons,” Cormac goaded. “I’d be happy to brave the deluge to retrieve one of them for you.”

Astrid’s temples throbbed, her fingers reaching to massage them. “When I deign to wed, it will be to an Ostman. And certainly no relative of your king’s.”

“He’s your king, too, is he not?” Cormac pressed.

Her brother inserted himself, no doubt to cease the questioning of their loyalty to Brian. “Unfortunately, dear sister, our friend here has a point. It is time for you to marry, and you will marry a Gael to further tie us to this land and its people.”

“But—” Astrid started right in with her protest, but Sitric wouldn’t allow it.

“We’ve discussed this numerous times,” his voice softened, “and I am decided. But,” he announced to the room, “I am not without a heart. My sister desires to wed one of our people to preserve her ties to our culture. Luckily for us, Jól is near.”

Astrid couldn’t fathom what the feast of midwinter had to do with her marriage. Before she could ask, Sitric continued.

“ Jól is a time of festivity, games, and community. A perfect opportunity to share our culture with your future husband.”

Astrid tired of this nonsense. “What is your point, brother?”

“We will send messengers across éire, inviting select men to come to Dyflin for Jól . For a full turning of the moon, we will host a leikmót. ”

Every Fianna warrior turned to Finn, who took pity on them and translated under his breath. “A festival of games.”

“Only the foreigners will compete, but they must learn the Ostman games to do so. The winner—who proves himself the most Ostman of the Gaels—will win your hand.”

Astrid’s stomach dropped, her ears buzzing as the blood rushed to her head. “You cannot be serious!”

“It’s the perfect compromise,” Sitric declared. “You marry a Gael who will not rob you of your heritage. Everyone wins. And we all get to enjoy a month of games.”

Catrin and Sláine hurried to add their enthusiastic support to Sitric’s absurd plan. Astrid’s efforts to protest were drowned in a sea of excitement at the prospect of the games. Her brother stood, raising his hand for silence. The room obeyed.

“It is decided. The leikmót begins in a fortnight. The prize is my sister.”