Chapter Six
One of the best parts of running a hostelry was the variety of folk that passed through Emer’s life.
She heard stories from all over éire, everything from new details of Cu Chulainn’s battle against Queen Medb to finding a long-lost cousin at a roadside campfire.
Some stories were extraordinary. Others were heartwarming or cautionary.
Many were about small moments. But every single one was worth hearing.
Her favorite tales were ghost stories. Emer shamelessly devoured anything to do with ghosts or spirits or even the Sidhe, though the latter unsettled her a bit more. Seeing a ghost was one thing. Falling into a fairy ring was quite another.
She’d given it some thought, especially since Alannah teased her over her predilection, and Emer determined that she liked the idea of having adventures after death.
There was also something comforting in the thought that her parents’ spirits might still be here with her even if she couldn’t see them.
Even after losing the wager with Alannah, Emer still indulged her curiosity.
So when a new guest at the hostelry asked if she’d heard of the haunting of Tethba, of course she’d stopped everything to listen to his spooky tale, shooting a sharp look at her unbelieving sister.
“No one’s seen the ghosts, of course,” the man whispered, his wiry brown mustache wiggling with each word. Ailill, he’d said his name was. “But I heard them myself.”
Emer gasped. “You didn’t! What did they sound like?” Did he hear the same thing Emer had?
“Sad and lost, I’m afraid, like you’d expect from a ghost left wandering the woods for eternity.
Not tinkling like fairy bells or wailing like a Bean Sídhe.
” His thick fingers danced as he told his story.
He could have been a bard in a different life, perhaps.
“’Twas a sad groaning, a heartbroken moaning that I heard as I passed through the trees. ”
“I heard it, too!” At the far end of the next table, a woman with long, gray hair woven into a frizzy braid stood, hurrying to join them.
“At first I thought I was being followed,” she proclaimed.
“Crunching leaves, snapping sticks. Footsteps. I stopped and called out, but no one showed themselves.”
Ailill jumped right back in, excitement emanating from him like warmth from the nearby fire. “That’s what I heard! But then the sound grew muffled, echoing with murmurs and words that weren’t quite spoken.”
“Yes!” The woman pointed at him. “Those woods are haunted, no doubt.”
“Perhaps there was an ancient battle there,” the man offered, stroking his mustache. “I hear sometimes they keep fighting, even after death.”
A shiver traveled down Emer’s spine. Their experiences aligned perfectly with her own. She needed to get Alannah over here to hear the tales herself. “I’ve heard that said many times,” she agreed. “We have some guests who might know. I’ll ask them when they get here tonight.”
“Tell them the woods felt eerie,” he added. “Gave me chills, like you’d get at a—”
A loud, angry oath rocked the cozy walls of her hostelry. All conversation dropped to a low murmur, all the joy and cheer sucked from the room with a handful of words.
Emer stood straight as a board, scanning the room for the source of the outburst. It didn’t take her long to find it.
Another shiver ran down her spine, but this time it wasn’t on account of ghosts in the woods.
It was because the ghost of a problem had somehow found her here.
To her horror, he stood beside the rest of the Fianna, the men who’d been staying at the Hart’s Rest for weeks now.
One of whom, Conan, was to marry her sister.
That brute from the marketplace couldn’t be one of them, could he?
Weren’t they supposed to be honorable men?
Plastering on the first fake smile Emer had used in ages, she walked over to greet her new guests.
Normally, Emer had no trouble whatsoever offering kindness, even if someone might be a tad irritating to others.
She knew there was good in everyone, and she was determined to find it.
But something about that man rubbed her wrong.
Guilt cut a searing line through her chest. Maybe he’d been having a bad day.
She was judging him awfully quickly based on one interaction, and that wasn’t her way at all.
He deserved the benefit of a second chance as much as anyone.
In fact, this would be an excellent test of her hosting skills.
He was simply a way for her to grow in kindness and understanding.
Aye, that was it. He was a test. And Emer was determined to pass.
By the time she reached the men, halting with a genuine smile beside Alannah, Emer’s determination was renewed.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” she greeted them. “I’m so excited to finally have all the Fianna joining us here at the Hart’s Rest.”
Five of the men had been staying with them since mid-spring.
The other three had traveled north with the kings and had just returned.
Not only did this mean that Emer got to meet three new friends, it also meant she was that much closer to having her brothers come home.
The Fianna had taken a blood oath to find the lost soldiers and bring them back to Ath Luain.
The very thought of it had Emer’s ever-present smile brightening. She couldn’t wait to see them again.
Illadan introduced the three new guests.
Cormac, Conan’s elder brother who exuded unshakeable calm, smiled at her and inclined his head in silent greeting.
Diarmid, Conan’s younger brother, was quite the opposite.
Lively and charming, he bowed theatrically, tossing Emer and Alannah a thoughtful compliment on their hostelry.
Broccan, she learned, was the man who’d crossed paths with her in the market.
Emer tried her best to reassess him, to see him without the coloring of their previous encounter.
To give him the courtesy of a fresh start.
Ignoring the glare that speared her, his piercing eyes reminded Emer of a sword in the sunlight—bright, gray, and promising a fight.
His brownish-blonde beard, trimmed short and neat like his hair, emphasized the sharp angle of his jaw and cheekbones.
Furrows seemed to hold permanent residence across his forehead.
Just like the other men, he was a giant—tall, broad, and well-muscled. Unsurprising, as they trained and fought for a living. Even Alannah had put on more muscle since she’d started training with them.
Checking that her smile still held, Emer stepped toward Broccan, extending a hand. “I believe we’ve already met,” she greeted him. “I’m Emer. Please, come and sit. I saved a table for you all.”
His stony eyes took her in, his lips a tight line. His hand didn’t budge.
Beside him, Cormac took a step closer to them. “You’ve already met, you say?”
Emer nodded. “In the market this afternoon. I’m afraid I wasn’t at my best then, either,” she added, turning back to Broccan. “I do apologize for my rudeness.”
She had called him a pig, after all. Emer wasn’t about to let that insult cause a rift between her and one of Conan’s friends.
Cormac cleared his throat. “Didn’t you tell me that you had something to say to that woman from the marketplace?”
Broccan’s glare slid from Emer to Cormac. When his eyes returned to her, some of the venom had faded. “I’m sorry.”
As far as apologies went it left something to be desired, but Emer wasn’t about to say as much.
They’d made progress. She took back her dangling hand and led them to the only empty table in the room.
While they got settled, she hurried to fetch the first course of the special meal she’d cooked them.
The savory, earthy aroma of creamy parsnip soup followed every step she took to their table, the first four platters balanced precariously on her arms. Alannah had taken up her post as Emer’s guard, keeping watch over the common room from the back door.
All the men exclaimed in excitement when Emer reached them, thanking her for the food and digging in.
All except Broccan. He stared at the plate, inspecting the meal before taking a tentative bite.
Perhaps he was famished. Even Emer had been known to lose her temper every now and again when she needed a good meal. She’d try cheering him up again after he ate.
Emer kept an eye on their table as she milled about the room, serving ale and a rich lamb stew to the rest of the guests.
Everyone knew these men were the king’s warriors—many of them princes themselves—so no one complained at their special treatment.
It was expected that honored guests received exceptional service.
When the soup was gone, she returned with their main course—a succulent roasted chicken.
Still, Broccan wouldn’t look at her. He didn’t smile.
Perhaps his poor mood wasn’t due to hunger. Emer’s chest panged again, guilt at her insult resurfacing. She should never have let her temper get the better of her. Circling around so that she stood right beside him, Emer gently placed a hand on his shoulder.
Finally, he glared at her.
“I really am sorry,” she said quietly. “It was wrong of me to call you a pig and you didn’t deserve that. Please don’t let my poor manners earlier ruin your meal.”
A snort of repressed laughter sounded from more than one of the men.
“What?” she asked, confused at how that could be amusing.
“First,” Dallan grinned, “you were right to call him a pig. He probably did deserve it.”
Emer’s mouth fell open. She glanced hastily at Broccan, fully expecting him to demand an honor duel right there and then. Instead, he grumbled an insult and violently stabbed his chicken.
“And second,” the bold warrior continued, “that’s how Broccan looks when he’s happy.”
“You can’t be serious.” Emer doubted anyone with a frown that deep and eyes that hard could be happy.
“Unfortunately he is,” Cormac said. “Though happy isn’t the right word, this is normal Broccan.”
Broccan appeared to be taking this all extremely well, considering he’d gone off on her over a stick of cinnamon only hours earlier.
“I see.” She did not see. Not one little bit. But Emer didn’t really know what else to say. At least it seemed she wasn’t the cause of Broccan’s frowning.
Emer hurried off, tending the other tables once more as the Fianna devoured their meal. The next time she returned, she carried the dish that she hoped would finally bring a smile to Broccan’s face—her famous strawberry pie, the reason she’d needed the cinnamon so badly.
She set the pie-laden plates, complete with a honey-sweetened cream topping, in front of each warrior, saving Broccan’s plate for last. “Well,” she asked, “what do you think?”
He took a tentative bite. He didn’t look any happier.
“I can only make this pie once or twice each year when the strawberries are in,” she explained. “It’s why I needed the cinnamon.”
Somehow his frown deepened. “What?” The word rumbled from his chest, low and dangerous.
Emer swallowed, taking a step back. “I know you were upset over not getting it,” she tried again. “I wanted to show you it went to good use—for your enjoyment, even.”
His nostrils flared. “This is why you wouldn’t give it to me?”
“Broccan.” Cormac warned.
“You stole it from me to make some mediocre pastry? Would it even have changed the flavor at all if you’d not had it?”
Emer swallowed again, this time to clear the lump forming in her throat. Alannah would’ve fired an insult right back at the brutish man, but Emer refused to stoop to his level of cruelty. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Then she retreated out the back door before she made an even bigger mess of things.