In the sitting area directly to their right, Dallan, Niamh, Astrid, and another woman held an animated conversation. The woman could only be Astrid’s, and therefore Sitric’s, mother. Her own blazing hair was a deeper, richer, more mature shade of the same hue as Astrid’s.Everyoneknew Gormla—she was the stuff of legends. Even in a small kingdom such as Thurles, where they hosted few guests and rarely had cause to visit Brian’s court, even there Cara had heard tales of the queen.
“Mother,” Sitric called, stepping over to interrupt a fit of giggles that was catching.
Gormla turned toward Sitric, smiling and rising from her fur-strewn chair when she spotted Cara.
“This is Princess Cara of Thurles,” Sitric introduced. “Cara, this is my mother, Queen Gormla.”
“Welcome to Dyflin, my dear,” Gormla greeted her. “So, why is it that Brian chose you, of all the princesses in his domain, to wed my son?”
It seemed the trials of securing this betrothal had only just begun. “Because when the opportunity presented itself, he realized I was the best choice. And,” Cara added honestly, “I believe he may actually enjoy arranging betrothals.”
Gormla’s mouth broke into a grudging smile, her eyes dancing. “You can stay,” she whispered, turning back to her chair. “Sitric, I like her.”
“You like anyone who jests over Brian,” Sitric accused.
“Because it’s a useful stick by which to measure how well I’ll get on with someone,” Gormla shot back. “Now, where was I?”
Cara still reeled from her brief but intense conversation with the formidable queen. Gormla had been born to the King of Laigin, Dallan’s grandfather, by one of his Ostman slaves—a spoil of war. But according to the tales, the king fell in love with the woman, and promised to make her daughter a princess. The trouble was that no kings of Éire wanted to marry the daughter of a foreign slave, no matter who her father may be. So, he married her to Olaf, the self-styled King of Dyflin, forging an alliance with the invaders that lasted to this day.
When Olaf died, Sitric became king and Gormla married Brian—a marriage that ended only a few short years after it began.
“Your room is this way.” Sitric’s deep, rumbling voice pulled her from her trance. “Dallan and Niamh are two doors down,” he added when they reached the door to the left at the far end of the hall. “I thought you’d appreciate more than just a wall for abarrier.” His wink drove home precisely what he insinuated, and it was nothing Cara cared to think on any further.
“I realize it will take time to grow accustomed to one another,” Sitric continued, leaning against the doorway into her room, “but I must ask, have I done something to offend you?”
“No,” Cara replied. “Have I given you that impression?”
“You stay as far away from me as you can,” he said. “You haven’t offered up a single bit of information about yourself, though we’ve been speaking for quite some time now. And you only ask me questions about my holding. You say you are in favor of this betrothal, yet I have seen no evidence of it.”
Fine. If he needed to be coddled, she would gladly oblige. Cara wasn’t about to lose her family’s home because of an uncomfortable conversation. “I dislike being too close to people—hugging, holding hands—until I get to know them well.” She shifted her weight, suddenly uncertain what to do with her hands. “There, that’s both part of the issue you’re sensing and something personal.”
“Alright, then,” Sitric held out his hand, returning it to his side when he realized what he’d done. “Let’s get to know one another.”
He turned and walked out the door nearest her room, the one opposite the doors they had entered through. Cara followed, wondering precisely what he had in mind. She wasn’t left long to her pondering. They hurried across the yard, past a small kitchen garden, to the second hall. Sitric threw open the doors with a mighty bellow, answered by the cheers and cries of the men within.
“Are the rooms to your liking?” he asked, sitting at the head of the table, grabbing a mug of ale, and gesturing for Cara to sit to his right. “I’m afraid Dallan is trapped with my mother at present. We shall have to drink without him.” He offered a cup filled with wine to Cara.
“I’m afraid I don’t drink,” she told him sheepishly.
To his credit, Sitric made no remark, instead drinking the wine himself in several long gulps—to the infantile chants of the Fianna who sat about the table. Motioning a serving woman over, he ordered a cup of milk be brought for her.
“Thank you,” she said, shifting her weight in her chair in a futile attempt to get comfortable.
Twenty-odd men and women filled the first two trestle tables in the hall, a perfect copy of the one they’d just left, a mixture of Fianna and Ostmen warriors in Sitric’s employ. Three women that Cara could spy drank right alongside the men, wearing leather trews and linen shirts just like the rest of them. The lot of them laughed and drank. Several of the Ostmen boldly attempted a drunken ballad.
Cara stared out at the absolute chaos before her, wondering how she’d spend the rest of her days here. Perhaps it would have been better if her sister had come in her stead—Catrin loved such revelry.
“Now,” Sitric turned to her, taking another drink of ale, “what is it you need to learn about me so that I no longer scare you?”
“You don’t scare me,” Cara corrected before she could think better of it. “I should like to know your plans for our marriage. Will you take mistresses? Will you include me in councils? Will you allow me to visit my family? What duties will be required of me, as it appears your mother and sister already run the household?”
Thinking of the marriage as her job, her responsibility, helped make the whole thing palatable. After her experience with Torna, she didn’t relish the idea of sharing a man’s bed again, though she knew it would be expected. Necessary, in fact, if they were to have children.
“Thatis what you must know of me?” Sitric’s question brought conversation at their end of the table to a grinding halt. “What duties I intend for you within my household?”
With perhaps the world’s worst timing in recorded history, Illadan sensed that Sitric and Cara were deep in conversation. And he apparently assumed it was a good thing, for he asked from the middle of the table, “So? Have you given any consideration to the betrothal?”
Sitric sat back in his chair and sighed heavily. “I have.”
