If he’d remembered, he could’ve asked Finn for help. Not only was his friend a bard of great skill, he was also the son of an Ostman who had family in Éire. That would’ve been a good plan.
Instead, Cormac forgot it entirely and was blindsided when Sitric announced at the end of the meal one night that theflytingwas about to begin. Beside him, Finn and Dallan laughed at his expense, happily explaining to the other Fianna precisely what Cormac was about to attempt.
Whispers shot down the hall as word of the contest spread faster than a house fire. By the time the servants had delivered an absurd amount of ale and the competitors were paired off along the table, the hall was stuffed with witnesses to his impending humiliation. And, of course, Cormac’s opponent was Cairell—the Ostman. Even if he wasn’t skilled in poetry, the man would have an advantage over him in knowing what was expected.
Cormac tried to pay attention to the men who went before them, but he felt as though he were suffocating. He could compete in feats of strength and endurance. He could wrestle or duel a man from dawn to dusk. But performing without preparation in front of a crowd while Astrid glared at him from the head of the table? He’d rather let Teague take after him with theknattleikrstick.
His turn came far too quickly. Not daring a glance at the red-haired vixen, he threw back as big a gulp of ale as he could.
“Cairell!” Sitric called cheerily. “Insult our friend, Cormac, for us!”
This could not be happening. He took one more deep drink, then braced himself for the worst.
Cairell appeared thrilled at the opportunity, diving right into a nasty rhyme.
“What does our Cormac have in common with bogs?
“Both of them stink of farts and frogs!”
The hall erupted in laughter. It wasn’t a particularly dignified insult, but it was the sort that always landed with an audience—especially after enough ale. The sound of their mirth shook the hall, drowning out Cormac’s thoughts as he struggled to form a response.
“Insult his mother!” Finn hissed in his ear. “They love that, too.”
“Young bard,” Sitric called, eyeing Finn knowingly, “why don’t you come sit up here with us to help judge the contest?”
Silence descended as everyone awaited Cormac’s reply. He swallowed, then did his best to follow Finn’s advice.
“I may smell like muck on an oar,
“But at least my mother’s not a whore.”
Another round of laughter, even from Cairell himself. But his opponent must have some practice at this game, for his response came quick and cutting.
“Your mother doesn’t need to be,
“For you sow your oats so wild and free,
“And that’s an accomplishment, truly, a win,
“Since your prick’s no bigger than a sewing pin.”
Damn. That was good.
Shouts filled the room. Cormac rubbed his hand over his neck, struggling to catch his breath. He needed to come up with something clever.
But all he could do was listen to the roar surrounding him, closing in about him. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
He should insult the man’s appearance or his skill in battle. Anything would be better than crippling silence. Cormac tried again, yet still no words came.
Knowing when he’d been bested, he raised his cup to Cairell and took a drink. “Well played,” he congratulated him. “Well played.”
*
Astrid sat inshock as Cormac conceded the match. What had she expected, though? She’d ignored him all this time instead of working with him. She’d never felt so torn in her entire life.
Or so afraid.
After that kiss, she’d been so disgusted with herself, appalled at her lack of self-control. And what was more, she hadn’t even been deep in her cups then. All she wanted after that was to put as much distance between them so she wouldn’t be tempted again. She needed time and space to sort out her feelings on all of it. She still needed time and space, but if she wanted Cormac to win, she’d have to start helping him again.
