Aingeal sat at the narrow window of her solar, the hem of her gown pooled around her ankles, her fingers moving clumsily over the coarse linen stretched across her lap. She had never been good at embroidery. Her stitches pulled too tight in one place and wandered loose in the next, as though even thread resisted quiet obedience in her hands. Still, she kept at it.
There was comfort in repetition, in beginning a thing and seeing it through. So much else in her life felt larger than her grasp, messier than she liked, beyond the reach of any neat ending. But a strip of cloth, a threaded needle, a pattern that might yet be brought right by patience -- those at least could be mastered.
Outside, the western hills lay low and dark beneath a bank of cloud. The light rose by slow degrees, illuminating the courtyard until the stone below lit. Aingeal let the needle rest against her knee and looked toward the dim horizon.
Sir Donal O’Raida.
She had known the name since girlhood. Heard it first in passing, later with greater weight in the hall and councilchamber. Men spoke of him as though he were already proven: a knight hardened on the borders, a man who rode hard and spoke little, a steady blade in uncertain times. He kept his lands well. He kept his people safe. The council admired him with the quiet satisfaction men reserved for reliable things.
That alone made her wary.
They said he was honorable. That he was not a drunkard. That he did not gamble. That he was neither cruel nor weak. They said he would make a good husband.
Aingeal exhaled softly.
Good husbands, in her experience, were most often men chosen by other men.
She set the embroidery aside and rose. The cloth slumped over the bench in a defeated heap. From the window, she could see the inner yard below: soldiers crossing from one duty to the next, a groom leading a tired mare toward the stables, two boys racing each other with armfuls of kindling while their breath burst white in the air.
Her gaze caught on a figure near the far wall.
A lone knight stood without cloak or helm, dark hair tied at the nape of his neck, a sword held in both hands. He moved through a pattern that looked almost like prayer: step, turn, cut. Nothing wasted. Nothing performed for watching eyes. The blade sliced the air with a thin singing sound.
Aingeal stilled.
He fought like a man who had learned where mistakes cost dearly. There was no flourish in him. No vanity. Only hard precision, every motion sharpened by necessity.
Something inside her tightened. And eased.
She leaned one shoulder against the stone and watched him longer than she ought to have. A small, private shame pricked at her for it. He paused only long enough to drag the back of his wrist across his brow. Then he began again.
The man from the field. She did not trust him. He was English. That should have been enough. Yet the part of her that had learned to read men by small things -- the set of a mouth, the hesitation before speech, the way a body braced before a lie -- could not quite dismiss him. That unsettled her more than rumor ever could.
Later that morning, she found Seamus near the armory, correcting two young recruits whose shields kept sinking beneath the weight of their own arms.
“I am riding into town,” she said.
Seamus turned at once. Concern settled into his face as naturally as weather into stone. “You will take an escort.”
“I intend to.”
His jaw tightened. “I will assign…”
“I want the English knight.”
For one beat, surprise showed plainly on his face. Behind him, steel rang. One of the recruits groaned and nearly dropped his shield.
“The English knight?” Seamus repeated.
“Send him.”
She turned before he could object and crossed the yard toward the gate. Two horses stood waiting there, steaming lightly in the chill. Bríd stamped against the stone, restless and eager. Aingeal mounted in one smooth motion born of long habit.
The knight approached on foot. Dust clung to his boots and the hem of his mail. Sweat darkened his tunic. A faint smear of dirt marked one cheek. He stopped beside her and inclined his head. “My lady.” His voice was calm. Controlled. Respectful, but not eager.
“You ride?” she asked.
“Yes.”
