By morning, she would drag him into the light.
Chapter seven
Aingeal woke before dawn with the taste of the chapel still in her mouth. Not incense nor wax. Fear.
She lay still beneath the blankets while the castle slept around her, replaying the look in Donal’s eyes when she had said oath. He had not protested. That unsettled her more than defiance would have. A man who protested could be met in argument. A man who went still had already begun measuring escape.
Perhaps he would go.
The thought should have brought relief. Instead, it struck oddly, as if a door had opened onto cold air.
Aingeal rose and dressed quickly. When she reached the lower hall, he was there.
Donal crossed the far end with quiet purpose, speaking briefly to Seamus as if he had every intention of remaining part of the castle’s morning. He did not hurry. He did not look like a man slipping away before questions could find him.
He looked like a man who had decided to stay.
Relief leapt inside her first. Then alarm.
She stood motionless until he passed through the yard door. A sensible woman would be glad since there would be no public scandal, no abandoned bride. No council murmuring that even an arranged husband had found her too much trouble to keep.
But Aingeal did not feel settled.
She turned and took the stairs to the narrow window above the training yard.
Morning lay pale over the stones. Below, Donal accepted a practice blade from Seamus and began to move.
He was beautiful with a sword. The thought came uninvited, and she hated it at once.
Nothing in him was made for admiration. Each cut was measured. Each turn exact. No flourish. No wasted motion. The younger boys watched without meaning to, then began copying his stance. Even the rougher soldiers seemed to fall into the rhythm of his competence.
Then Seamus said something she could not hear, and Donal laughed. The sound rose up the stone, low and quick.
It struck her harder than the sight of him fighting. Tenderness, she thought, was the danger. Not desire. Desire could be named and refused. Tenderness slid beneath judgment and began rearranging loyalties before a person noticed.
Her palm flattened against the cold window ledge. Máire’s voice came back without warning.
I wanted to be chosen.
The hillside. Wet grass underfoot. A quarrel sharpened by pride and hurt. Her sister’s face, flushed with anger. A shove meant only to end the argument. The slip. The fall. The terrible stillness after.
Aingeal shut the memory away so sharply it left her unsteady.
Father Cillian had heard her confession. He had given absolution. God, she had been told, forgave what grief could not change. But absolution did not call the dead back.
By the time she turned from the window, her hope had cooled into purpose. If Donal would not leave because of his own shadow, then he would stand beneath hers. She sent for Tomas.
He came to her solar within the quarter hour, hair still damp from the basin, a ledger tucked beneath one arm. He took one look at her and closed the door. “What have they done now?”
“Call the council for midday.”
His brows rose. “For what?”
“For the marriage.”
“The council has already agreed to the marriage.”
“They agreed to an alliance.” She moved to the table and spread a clean sheet of parchment as if the act itself might steady her. “They have not yet agreed to the man.”
