Because she loved Aingeal too much not to know.
Chapter seventeen
The rain began as a fine, stubborn mist and became a hard silver fall before the morning count was finished.
Aingeal was in the lower yard with Tomas, Seamus, and three very unhappy farmers when the first sack split open at her feet. Spoiled barley spilled across the stones in a damp, sour heap.
For one breath, no one moved.
Then the eldest farmer crossed himself as if the grain were a body. “That is winter,” he said hoarsely. “That is half a month of winter.”
Aingeal looked toward the old granary. The north seam of the roof had failed again in the night. Water ran in a narrow, steady line from the thatch and down the rear wall, darkening the stone, soaking whatever had been stored too close to it. Even from the yard, she could smell the damage: wet grain, old wood, and the first sour warning of rot.
Tomas held the ledger against his chest as if parchment could keep the numbers from worsening. “Six sacks ruined. Nine more damp. Possibly more if the lower row took water.”
“Possibly,” one of the farmers snapped. “That is a word men use when they are not the ones going hungry.”
Seamus stepped forward. “Watch your tongue.”
“No,” Aingeal said.
Seamus stopped.
The farmer looked at her, anger and fear hardening his face. “We paid levy in good barley.”
“You did.”
“We sent carts when your men asked. We brought grain in before the ridge road froze. And now it sits here under your roof and spoils.”
“My roof failed,” she said. “Not yours.”
That silenced him more effectively than rebuke.
Aingeal turned toward the open granary door. Men stood just inside, shifting uneasily. Boys waited with empty baskets, looking for orders that had not yet come. The rain thickened, striking the yard stones with a soft, relentless hiss.
She had decisions to make, and every one would cost something.
Open the northern stores too soon, and the castle might run thin before spring. Refuse the farmers, and resentment would take root faster than mold. Delay, and the damp sacks would be lost by evening.
“Bring the rest out,” she said. “Not into the rain. Under the cart shed. Open every damp sack. Tomas, mark what is lost and what may yet be saved.”
The oldest farmer gave a bitter laugh. “Saved where? Shall we spread it over the stones and pray the rain grows kinder?”
Before Aingeal could answer, Donal stepped from the archway.
He had been there long enough to hear. She knew it from the way his gaze moved not to her first, but to the roof, the wall, the angle of the yard, the slope of water running. He wore no cloak,only a dark tunic and leather bracers, rain coated his hair and shoulders.
The sight of him should not have steadied her, but it did.
“The brewhouse,” he said.
Tomas blinked. “What?”
“The old brewhouse has a stone floor, a broad hearth, and high shutters. It is being used for broken barrels and tools. Clear it. Spread the grain there. Keep the fire low and turn the barley often.”
Aingeal looked at him. “You have been in the brewhouse?”
“I notice neglected buildings.”
