Based on the absurd looks they gave him, Conan knew they only kept their mouths shut out of respect to Emer. He was, for all intents and purposes, the only true stag left among the eight of them now.
First Finn had married Dallan’s sister, Eva, while Illadan was busy romancing Finn’s sister, Ethlinn. Then Dallan had stumbled upon his first love and somehow won her over. Conan’s younger brother, Diarmid, had stolen the King of Dyflin’s intended bride. That he’d stolen another man’s wife hadn’t surprised Conan one bit. That the woman was willing had shocked him to no end. Even Conan’s elder brother Cormac had charmed a woman to wife, an Ostman princess, no less.
Ardál had no wife, but he’d also shown no interest whatsoever in taking lovers, at least as far as Conan had observed. The man was a complete mystery, keeping even more to himself than Cormac.
And Broccan would never marry again. He never spoke of the wife and daughter he’d lost, but Conan knew it had broken him, changed him. He’d never been the same man after the fire. And he’d made it more than clear that he’d never take another wife.
One by one, they’d fallen prey to their hearts, which meant they had but one target to get in all of their obnoxious jests.
They finished eating without much conversation. Dallan looked barely conscious, and Conan knew his head must ache something fierce even though he didn’t complain. When they were well out of earshot of The Hart’s Rest, Illadan rounded on Conan.
“You cannot keep bedding her.” He spoke under his breath, keeping the conversation quiet.
“I don’t intend to,” Conan assured him. Alannah herself had insisted it was for one night only, though he knew he’d be sorely tempted to see her again.
“Good,” Illadan clipped. “Because if you bed her every night except the ones where we go to the bridge, she’ll realize what we’re up to. She has a sharp mind and an observant eye.”
He was right. Conan nodded his understanding, grateful that at least someone had kept their head last night. “She thinks we’re retired mercenaries,” he told them all.
“Is that what you told her?” Finn asked from behind him.
“No, she decided it was the only reasonable explanation for a group of bards being so heavily armed and giant.”
“Giant?” Dallan grinned.
“Her word.”
“And you agreed to it?” Illadan pressed, his mind flying behind narrowed eyes.
“I did. I told her we didn’t like to speak of it.” Though he’d answered her truthfully, he hadn’t loved the lie of omission. But his loyalty was to the Fianna. Unlike his younger brother, Conanwasn’t about to risk a mission over a woman, no matter how beautiful.
They spent theday out about the town, sure to stay clear of the king’s residence to the north. Conan hadn’t been in Ath Luain since he’d left at the age of seven to foster with Brian, so none of the townsfolk had much chance of recognizing him.
But he had seen his father, King Cahill of Connachta, a few months earlier. The king and his men would certainly recognize Conan on sight, along with the other Fianna. If they were discovered staying in town instead of accompanying Brian to the council meeting, their mission would be compromised.
The bridge proved a busier place than Conan imagined. Every time the Fianna neared it, someone was either crossing or within easy sight of it. They’d not have any hope of sneaking supplies out there during the day with this many people around.
“What day is it?” Finn asked.
“Thursday.” Illadan had the answer before Conan could even process the question.
“We should try Sunday morning,” Finn suggested. “The folk who aren’t at church will be sleeping off their Saturday night.”
The hint of a smile passed over Illadan’s lips as he nodded in agreement.
Dallan smacked Finn’s back affectionately. “Maybe you’re not a total loss, after all.”
“Your sister seems to think so,” Finn taunted him.
“You did not just—”
Finn shrugged, walking back in the direction of The Hart’s Rest and leaving Dallan grimacing.
Conan was enjoying not being at the wrong end of a joke for a change. “We should come back every day,” he added. “Sunday may be best, but every town has a rhythm. Perhaps we’ll have more than one option.”
“Agreed.” Illadan halted Finn. “Finn and Dallan, you find a reason to visit the western side of the bridge every day for the next sennight. Conan and Ardál, the eastern side. I’ll see if I can learn anything from the locals. We still spar every morn. We can meet outside the town to the west.”
“We can spar behind The Hart’s Rest,” Conan told him. “Alannah believes we still practice every day, so she won’t think it odd.”
