Brennach’s mouth tightened. “Aingeal…”
“Do not soften it.” She lifted one hand. “Say it plainly.”
Silence held for a beat. Then Brennach spoke. “You must marry. Sir Donal O’Raida.”
A southern lord. Strong ties. Good land. Stone keeps. A sensible match, if one looked only at maps and men and border lines scratched in ink.
Around the table, relief flickered before anyone dared show it fully. Seamus wanted strength at the borders. Padraig wanted certainty. Father Cillian wanted structure sanctified. Brennach wanted a solution that looked respectable and permanent. Only Tomas looked as though the words had cost him something.
“It will strengthen our defenses,” Brennach added. “The people need reassurance.”
Aingeal tasted the bitterness of that and kept her voice level. “If this is what is required for peace,” she said, “then I will comply.”
Relief moved through the room at once, visible as wind through long grass. Padraig sat back. Father Cillian bowed his head as if God himself had arranged the thing. Even Brennach’s shoulders loosened.
Aingeal rose slowly. Her skirts whispered over the stone. “Understand this,” she said, and now every face lifted fully to hers. “I do this for our people. For the land. For stability. But do not mistake this for surrender.”
Silence fell hard.
“I have governed through famine and threat. I have rationed grain, settled disputes, buried our dead, and stood watch in storms while other people debated what should be done. I did not become incapable because you decided I needed a husband beside me.” Her gaze moved from Brennach to Padraig to Seamus, holding each in turn. “I will give you your alliance. Afterward, you will remember who holds this land.”
No one answered.
She left them there with their relief and their silence and walked into the corridor before any of them could recast her words into something smaller.
Outside, the passage felt colder than before. She crossed to the narrow window and braced one hand on the stone. Below, in the yard, a small bird hopped along the wall and sang thinly against the winter. Aingeal rested her forehead for one moment against the chill.
She would marry because rule required sacrifice. But she would not vanish into the bargain.
“Aingeal.” Tomas’s voice came softly behind her.
She did not turn. “I am not in the mood for counsel.”
“No,” he said. “You are in the mood for anger. And I deserve it.”
She turned to face him.
He stood a few paces away, ledger dust still smudged at one cuff, his face drawn tight with remorse. Tomas had taught her accounts when she was younger and had shown her how grain, grazing, and silver could decide whether men lived throughwinter. He had always preferred records to arguments. Quiet truths to loud ones.
“How long?” she asked.
“Three days.”
“Three days,” she repeated. “Three days while I rode the western farms. Three days while they discussed my future behind closed doors.”
“I argued with them.”
“With words.” Her laugh was brief and without warmth. “Words do not trouble Brennach. Or Padraig.”
“No,” he said. “They do not.”
She looked at him fully then. Hurt sat more heavily than anger, and because of that it cut deeper. “You were supposed to be my friend.”
“I am.” He took a step nearer. “I thought sparing you those three days might be a kindness.”
“There is no kindness in being reduced without warning.”
He flinched as if she had struck him.
