They’d come for wealth and hostages.
Brian and Sitric were both at war with the kingdom of Ulaid. Taking men and valuables would weaken them far more than a pointless slaughter.
The aim, of course, was to force them to submit to Brian and acknowledge him as the High King, as well as ending the incursions by Ulaid into his kingdom. Diarmid had long ago tired of the constant fighting between the kingdoms. Having them united under a strong leader would bring a peace no one thought possible—precisely the reason Diarmid stayed with Brian when his father had turned on him.
They charged up the beachfront, seaweed and spume trampled by the feet of nearly two hundred men. The first drops of rain pelted them as they broke through the feeble wooden palisade, built too near the salty seas.
Fighting through the meager force guarding the settlement, the entire raid took less than an hour. By midday, they were hauling chests and hostages onto the third, smaller ship they’d brought for just that purpose. A quick meal later, they left for their second attack: Inis Cumscraigh.
Inis Cumscraigh lay further inland, making it necessary to navigate An Caol, a snaking river that led from the sea to a smattering of inland settlements. More men guarded Inis Cumscraigh than Cill Cliethe, but still nowhere near enough to pose a challenge to them. Once again, they captured what men they could—who would hopefully serve as the leverage in a negotiation—and took all the valuables they could find. If Ulaid had no money for supplies and no men for warriors or workers, the king would have little choice but to swear fealty to Brian instead of inciting more bloodshed.
Diarmid wandered the ruined settlement—one that housed a monastery and, therefore, more of the kingdom’s wealth. He joined several of Sitric’s men headed into a small dry-stone building, blinking to adjust to the dim light within. Though there was no central hearth, braziers lined the walls of the single room. The cramped interior could only hold two short trestle tables, each with four stools. The room itself was unremarkable.
But what sat upon the tables—spectacular.
A dozen books in varying stages of construction covered nearly all the visible surfaces. Paints, inks, brushes, and an assortment of tools Diarmid couldn’t name sat in neat rows down the center of the table, held in cups, bows, and vials. The entire building smelled of books, of dried leather, ink, parchment, and wood.
Cara would love this place.
“Leave them a moment,” Diarmid directed the men, who’d begun flipping through the pages. “I’d like a look.”
The warriors grumbled, but ceased their rifling, rushing out the door to find other plunder. Diarmid ran his hands down the pages of the first book in the row. It appeared to be an accounting of the events of the past year in their small corner of the earth. It had a few illustrations, but looked entirely too practical. Though, Diarmid thought with a chuckle, some boring record of a village’s events may be something his princess would enjoy.
Princess. It had been too long since things had been easy between them. Maybe a gift fit for a royal would be a good first step toward finding that connection again.
He continued down the table, his fingers brushing each item. Diarmid knew that even if they didn’t bring all of this back to Dyflin, Cara would want to hear every detail.
“Shopping, are we?” Sitric ducked beneath the low doorway, smiling like a fool. “Looking for anything in particular?”
Diarmid chuckled. “I’ll know it when I see it.”
“Ah, my favorite kind of shopping.”
“Congratulations on your victory,” Diarmid said distractedly, his hand moving to the fourth book. It was the most complete, and it had caught his eye the moment he’d begun this exercise—the shimmering paints looked like they’d just finished drying. The magnificent illuminations colored the edges and letters of countless pages. It wasn’t a large book, perhaps as wide as a dagger’s blade. “This one,” he told Sitric. “This is what I’m looking for.”
Carefully, reverently, he turned the pages, one after another. And read about Achilles and Patroclus consulting the oracle at Delphi. The beauty of Helen. The great warrior Hector slaying Patroclus, provoking Achilles’ anger. The Myrmidons.
Diarmid smiled. Aye, this would be perfect.
Sitric wandered over, looking at the painstakingly illuminated pages. “A good choice.” As an afterthought, he added, “I believe Cara reads a lot. Perhaps she’d like to see it.”
Diarmid’s hands went clammy and cold. This was it. He couldn’t drag this out any longer. The battles were won, and soon they’d return and Sitric would expect a betrothal contract.
“I thought to give it to her, actually,” he told Sitric. “I believe she enjoys this tale in particular.”
Sitric let out an oath. “Do you know her well? You traveled with her, perhaps you’ve spoken with her more than I have?”
“What do you mean?” Diarmid hadn’t a clue. He thought Sitric might intuit his interest in Cara, but his friend seemed relieved—which would be an odd reaction indeed.
“As you’re well aware, she’s impossible to read,” Sitric began, sitting on the nearest stool. “I agreed to the betrothal and she put me off! After practically begging me to agree to it for a fortnight, when I finally do she hesitates. What did I miss?” he asked, clearly baffled. “What happened?”
Diarmid drew in a shaky breath. “I fell in love with her.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Youwhat?” Sitricrose, a storm rolling over his fair face.
“Entirely by accident, I assure you,” Diarmid told him. “We, the Fianna, decided she needed some—help. Learning how to behave more warmly. They asked me to give her some advice, offer some guidance on holding better conversations and the like.”
