Chapter Five
The earthen embankments surrounding Dyflin rose up from what Cara could only describe as a swamp. The peat-filled bog cut swaths through the carefully-laid farmlands, until they came within sight of Dyflin. There, the earth itself seemed to fall away into the pools of dark, murky water that dotted the coastline, hidden between hills and trees.
Atop the embankments, a wooden palisade rose taller than any man she’d met—unsurprising fortifications for a people who had violently overtaken her own. Cara found it particularly telling that, in spite of the expansive trade industry in the harbor, the only side of the city without a gate was the one facing the sea. As though the Fin Gall knew their own kin may turn on them at any time, sailing across the frigid waters to lay claim to this godforsaken settlement.
“What do you think?” Niamh asked, riding beside Cara. “It seems…”
“‘Desolate’ is the word you’re searching for,” Dallan offered from in front of them.
Cara heartily agreed.
“It’s not desolate,” Diarmid argued from behind her. She wasn’t the least surprised he chose to be disagreeable. “There’s activity everywhere. It’s bleak.”
She and Niamh both turned around to look at him.
“Cloudy skies, the wailing of gulls, puddles of water blacker than a pond in hell. I’d go with bleak.” He grinned at her, that same grin he’d used on the innkeeper.
And, as always, her insides melted. She decided sometime during dinner the night before that no matter how skilled he may be with sword or spear, that smile was his most potent weapon. Based on how often he wielded it, he knew that, too. Cara had absolutely no interest in Diarmid, beyond perhaps convincing him to consider reforming his ways, yet her body always reacted when he pinned her with that wicked, charming smile.
It irritated her almost as much as his juvenile behavior. Almost.
Split logs paved the roads of Dyflin, making a commendable attempt to keep the bog from overtaking the walkways. Most of the time, they succeeded. Occasionally, Cara’s horse lost its footing on the slippery wood. All of the homes were built in the same foreign style as the inn, woven wattle fences separating the endless rows of adjoining properties. Everything, from the land to the buildings to the people, was so different from Thurles. For a town only a few days to the east and one kingdom over, it felt like a completely different island.
They wound their way gradually upward through the center of town. The tall masts of ships peeked above the sloped roofs of thatch and high palisade that hid the harbor from sight. The slow buzzing of saws and the clink of a smith’s hammer sang a craftsman’s song as they rode. The smell of brine, pitch, and pine filled every breath Cara took until they reached the far side of the settlement. Then it smelled of peat and roast boar.
A shorter palisade, of a height with many of her warrior companions, encircled a large group of buildings along the eastern edge of Dyflin. She counted at least two gigantic halls, easily twice as long and tall as the inn, and five other buildings as they entered Sitric’s holding.
“Welcome, friends!” A tall, fair-haired beast of a man bellowed when they’d begun dismounting. “Dallan,” their host made it to the grinning warrior in three long strides, embracing him like a brother. “’Tis good to see you again, cousin.” Sitric’s voice held a musical lilt that Cara found both unexpected and pleasing.
“’Tis good to be back again,” Dallan replied, returning Sitric’s embrace.
“And Finn!” Sitric turned cheerily toward the tallest man among the Fianna, whose sand-colored hair was nearly a match to Sitric’s. Sitric spoke to Finn in a foreign tongue, leaving Cara to guess at what was said. When Dallan laughed at the exchange, she realized that he, too, must speak the language of the Fin Gall.
“You’ll be wanting to learn it, I imagine,” Diarmid whispered to her, walking to stand beside her as Sitric loudly greeted each and every one of them. Though Cara could have done without his ostentatious enthusiasm, she was impressed that he remembered each of their names, and a good deal more about each man.
“I suppose I will,” she admitted.
“Most in his hall speak both languages,” Diarmid added. “All the craftsmen and artisans come from the countryside and nearby villages, so the language of our people is just as common.”
“How do you know that?”
The corner of Diarmid’s lips curved upward. “Enat told me last night.”
Before she could release the barb forming in her mind, Sitric reached her. Or, rather, reached for her. Instinctively, Cara took a step backward. Sitric’s smile fled, his jovial attitude dissipating like a morning mist.
“You find me repulsive?”
Oh, Lord. She hadn’t even said a word and she’d already botched her only duty. “No, no,” she hurried. “You surprised me, I’m afraid. I find you quite charming.”
He eyed her skeptically. In truth, Cara had no desire to embrace a man she’d only just met. She didn’t even embrace her sister that often anymore. In an attempt to prove her point, Cara extended her arm to him, expecting him to bow or something equally respectable.
Instead, he pulled her into a vise-like embrace. Cara went stiff, so uncomfortable she couldn’t even muster the willpower to return the gesture. When he released her, she found nine pairs of eyes watching them apprehensively. Diarmid’s pained look told her it was as bad as she’d feared. Niamh offered her a sad but encouraging smile.
Cara wanted nothing more than to melt into one of the muddy puddles littering this cursed town. Instead, she raised her chin and did her best impersonation of Diarmid’s blasted grin. “You have a lovely home here,” she lied, hoping it wasn’t as obvious as it felt. “Perhaps you could show me around?”
“As my lady wishes,” Sitric replied, some of the mirth returning to his tone. “Astrid!” he shouted into the nearest hall. He turned to Dallan. “That girl’s never around when I need her.”
“She’s around,” Dallan chimed in. “She’s probably ignoring your bellyaching.”
A stunning woman stepped out of the hall, certainly not the young girl Cara had pictured at Sitric’s words. Though her features were quite striking, Cara couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s fiery red hair, like embers glowing in a blacksmith’s forge. “Or she’s doing your chores,” the woman, presumably Astrid, replied tartly. Her freckle-flecked face lit up when she spotted Dallan. She squealed as she ran to leap into his waiting arms. “Is Eva coming, too?”
“No,” Dallan replied sadly. “Though she certainly wishes it.”
Astrid rolled her lips into a pouty frown. “Perhaps I’ll have to venture to Cenn Cora to see her. It’s been too long.”
“She would love that,” Finn, Eva’s husband, said, walking over to introduce himself to Astrid. “She can’t stop talking about her wonderful cousin.”
“You mean me, right?” Sitric interjected.
“No, I mean Astrid,” Finn laughed.
“Well,” Sitric pretended affront, “Astrid, as you’re the favorite, why don’t you show our guests to their quarters?”
“Happily.” She flashed an exuberant smile at Sitric before ushering the Fianna toward one of the large halls.
“This way,” Sitric held out his hand to Cara.
Cara looked at him, but didn’t take it. She moved to walk beside him, keeping her hands clasped behind her back. If her dismissal offended him, this time he made no mention of it.
“Was your trip pleasant?” he asked as they turned to walk around the perimeter of his estate. In the distance, thunder cracked, an ominous grey cloud rolling in from the west. Sitric appeared unconcerned at the impending storm.
“Very, thank you.” Cara took another look at the buildings before her, watching with some measure of amusement as Astrid appeared to give Cormac a talking-to. What he could have possibly done was beyond Cara. Of all the Fianna, he was the slowest to anger, the most patient. A gentle, quiet soul. Who had somehow incurred the wrath of the spirited Astrid.
“She’s just making certain they know who’s in charge,” Sitric commented wryly. “I tease her constantly of behaving more like the hounds than a princess, asserting her authority with loud barking, but as you can see, it has done little to sway her. Perhaps she’ll listen to you.”
“If she’s found some fault in Cormac, I daresay there’s none who could sway her.” Even from this distance, Cara could see Cormac’s jaw clenching—something she’d never imagined possible.
Sitric tilted his head to regard her. “You find Cormac pleasing?”
“I find his temperament pleasing,” she replied carefully. She’d already made such a mess of this introduction, the last thing she needed was Sitric believing she lusted after one of the other men. “He’s reserved and soft-spoken, he makes rational judgments and seems altogether a fair man.”
Sitric frowned. “I find him to be rather a bore.”
“Why do you have two halls?” Cara asked, hastily changing the subject.
“One is for guests, the other for family. Both are a bit more extravagant than strictly necessary, but I had the land to add extra rooms.”
“They’re lovely,” Cara told him honestly. “I can’t wait to see the inside. I’ve never been in a Fin Gall home before, unless you count the inn to the north.”
“Ostman,” Sitric corrected gently. “We call ourselves Ostmen, not Fin Gall.”
Cara mentally berated herself yet again, though she had no way of knowing such a thing without being told. “My apologies, I had no idea.”
“I wouldn’t have expected you to,” Sitric replied. He didn’t sound upset, but Cara knew this wasn’t going well. “So how do you feel about the marriage?”
Cara forced herself to breathe evenly, not to show any outward signs of distress. She should have expected such a question, especially from such a seemingly open man. As far as she could tell, Sitric wore his feelings as he did his clothes—plainly for all to see.
“I look forward to it.” She hoped he believed her. “Brian was smart to make such a match, and I think it will work in everyone’s best interests.”
Sitric’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, it will,” he agreed, though Cara sensed a riot of unspoken thoughts between them. “I admit, I’m not overly fond of the idea of marriage. For such a beautiful bride, however, I may be willing to make an exception.”
Cara’s stomach flipped at such an intimate statement. “You flatter me,” she said, trying to brush away the uncomfortable topic.
“You are a virgin, are you not?”
“I beg your pardon?” Bile rose up from her belly. What did one say to such a brazen question? As her suitor, he of course had the right to such knowledge. But she had hoped this particular conversation would take place much later—certainly not the very day she arrived.
Sitric stopped walking as they completed their circuit, turning to face her curiously. “Well, now. That’s interesting.”
“What is?”
He leaned toward her, uncomfortably close. “Virgins blush when I ask that. You got angry.” He gave her a knowing look, one that told her he as good as knew her secret, before opening the door into the hall. “Perhaps you have more potential than I thought.”
Irritation flared in her veins as Cara floated gracefully into the warmth of the hall. Her mistakes may have made her more interesting to him, she fumed, but his superficial interest in her made him wholly unappealing. What had initially been an unpleasant duty was quickly becoming a thorn in her side. And that was if she could even get him to agree to the betrothal after their rocky introduction. Summoning what remained of her tattered dignity, Cara followed Sitric into his great hall.