“I did not hear—”
“Daydreaming again? I swear, Astrid, ye are going to be the death of me—”
Astrid stopped listening to the tirade she was so familiar with. As was her habit, Beibhinn was no longer speakingtoAstrid butabouther. Fintan was the polite listener this time, and she had compassion for him. It was no doubt an awkward situation for the man.
The pain that usually settled in her chest when her mother started in on her, the feelings of inadequacy, were surprisingly absent. Astrid swallowed hard, expecting the usual lump to show itself, but it was not there. Instead, the look of love on Marcán’s face flashed through her mind. His compliments. His sweet words. All these things filled her mind as she struggled to take a deep breath through the tears stinging her eyes.Hefound her acceptable. More than acceptable. He desired her, and no one else, for his wife. She had successfully crossed the chasm between belittling and adoration, and her heart soared.
And yet her mother intended to take all that away from her. Well, she wouldn’t let it happen! Surely there would be a way around this… this thing Beibhinn had set in motion. Watching Beibhinn’s mouth flapping, the lines around her lips tight in her complaints, Astrid wondered why she had ever sought the woman’s approval for anything. It had been obvious, even as a little girl, she would never receive it. That sudden revelation was like the sun bursting through on a cloudy day, and Astrid nearly sighed with relief. The woman foundeverythingabout Astrid wanting. Her looks. Her manners. Her embroidery. Her voice. As if the goal of a mother was not to encourage her children but to keep ripping them apart and discouraging them from ever believing in themselves… or ever having lives of their own.
Astrid hoped only to shower her children with love and acceptance. Life was brutal, and so many children died before they had a chance to grow. Just as her younger brother, Fergus, had died so young. Did her mother have any regrets about him? One of the last times Astrid had seen her father was when he’d learned of his youngest son’s death. He had been devastated, but that had not stopped Beibhinn from laying him low with her mouth, placing all the blame at his feet.
The meal was finishing, and Astrid counted herself lucky on two counts. Her mother had not sought her involvement in their conversation again, and Pádraig had still not arrived. Mayhap he had even returned home. That would be a blessing as far as Astrid was concerned.
As it turned out, Fintan was afili,a member of an elite class of highly trained and sought-after poets. He traveled from place to place, entertaining his audience with his poems of great conquests and the warriors that fought in them. Once the food was removed, he regaled them with his poems and songs, much like the stories Marcán was so good at sharing. Fintan even used a small stringed instrument to bring some of his words to music. A lovely voice.
The songs Fintan sang were of battles and lost loves. Poignant stories that stirred Astrid’s heart and made her wish Marcán would show himself. She would feel more at peace if she could just see him now. Even if he had to keep his distance. He was Diarmuid’s second, expected to sit at the head table. Not so when Beibhinn commanded the room. She made no secret of her dislike of him.
The room erupted with clapping when Fintan finished, all those present deeply affected by his words. Though the final song was about unrequited love, Astrid found herself imagining her own Marcán with his long, black hair. Hearing her mother sniffle beside her, Astrid looked more closely and was surprised to see she was indeed crying, as if also touched by the sentimentality of the lovers. These were real tears, which Astrid had long since learned to distinguish from her mother’s fake ones.
Fintan bowed low to each side of the room with great ceremony before returning to Beibhinn’s side.
“Ah, Fintan!” Beibhinn wiped at her face. “I have missed the sound of yer voice.”
He took a long draught from his horn, which was quickly refilled by the many willing attendants surrounding him. Fintan smiled his thanks to them, acknowledging each in turn before they drifted away.
“Glad I am ye enjoyed that, Beibhinn. I sang the last one for ye.”
The sight of Beibhinn dropping her face into her hands nearly had Astrid gasping. She tried to remember what it was the man had sung about to cause this depth of emotion.
A handsome warrior with hair dark as night
His bright green eyes twinkling with pleasure at the maiden’s sighs.
Astrid looked askance at her mother. Her father’s eyes had been dark brown, his hair the blond of his Norse father. Not Kane then. No doubt the song was about the man Beibhinn would have preferred to marry.
“My thanks,” Beibhinn said, then her voice became so quiet that Astrid had to shift closer to hear her. “I remember him that way still. Just as ye sang of him.”
“Ye speak of him as if he had died in his youth.”
“He might as well have.”
Fintan sighed, patting her mother’s clasped hands. “What happened was for the best. He lived a long, happy life.”
Her mother’s painful sigh sent chills along Astrid’s spine. As did the raspy whisper that followed. “He could have been happier with me! He should have been mine.”
Fintan’s hand stilled atop her mother’s. “Ye found no comfort in his happiness? Would ye have wanted him alone with no family of his own?”
“I wanted him withme.”
Sneaking a peek around Beibhinn’s head, Astrid searched the man’s face. It had darkened and his eyes, directed at her mother, were mere slits of narrowed indignation.
His lips tight over his teeth when he spoke, he said, “Yet he chose another. Ye would have done better to make yer peace with that than to harden yer heart so.”
Fintan turned away with such finality, Astrid expected him to rise from the table. Instead, he emptied his horn and asked for another—a request his many enthralled attendees were eager to fulfill.
“Do ye have news from the north?” one young lass asked as she poured the mead into his horn.
Fintan’s expression had relaxed with the increased amount of drink, his hand resting on the table in front of him. “I have many tales to tell from both near and far!”
