Chapter 17

The sun was just cresting the horizon as the party accompanying the ri túath began to gather near the ráth. The group included Diarmuid since Sean sought his support at a meeting with several other rig túath. Aednat's reprehensible treatment at the hands of Black Oengus needed to be addressed. With a rogue noble stooping to such behavior, a long-standing agreement had been breached, and a new level of understanding was required. Sean had even considered going so far as to put it into writing, which gave it the same importance as the word of God. His hope was that with Diarmuid present, the others might be persuaded to take this monumental step.

Brighit, Sean's daughter, seemed particularly interested in getting the trip started. Her reins were so tightly held, the animal was having a hard time staying still. The others who'd gathered for the journey east to the Drogheda Clan seemed less anxious. The lass's parents had not even joined her yet.

Marcán, who'd come early to wait for Diarmuid, gripped the lead of his friend's prized horse and approached him as soon as he arrived. "I had hoped we could speak."

"Brighit, please settle yer horse," Diarmuid called to the girl before turning his attention back to Marcán. "Sean has his hands full with that one."

"More so her betrothed, I believe." Marcán dropped his smile. "I have been trying without success to approach ye w—"

"Let loose the reins, lass." Diarmuid's voice carried across the group.

"I am trying!" An angry blush spread across her face as her mount continued its skittish movements.

"Have ye never ridden before?"

Marcán turned away to hide his smile at Diarmuid's teasing.

She was a proud lass and her response was not surprising.

"If ye think ye can do a better job, Diarmuid, ye're welcome to try!"

A quick look at Diarmuid's face betrayed his irritation. His concern for his wife, and reluctance to leave her at such a time were obvious to Marcán.

"More than a handful," Diarmuid mumbled.

"And ye said the same about yer sister," Marcán replied in the same hushed tone.

Diarmuid's eyes widened at Marcán, who simply smiled and asked, "So now do I have yer attention?"

Brighit's horse's antics made the rest of the horses restless and caused general disgruntled comments. Silently, Marcán and Diarmuid watched until she finally got the beast to settle down.

"Will ye see to things here?" Diarmuid pulled on his riding gloves with irritating precision.

"I will see to all things," Marcán said. "Do not fash yerself. Astrid will keep yer wife company until yer return."

Diarmuid's sharp glance gave Marcán pause, as if he'd heard something in his tone. Was his affection for Astrid so obvious that even saying her name revealed his true feelings?

"And what did ye wish to speak to me about?" Diarmuid asked, his eyes narrowing.

Something in Diarmuid's expression caused an uneasiness to creep into Marcán's chest. He searched his friend's face. Was Marcán being overly suspicious, or was the man playing with him?

He decided to tread lightly. "We have not had much time for discussion, try as I might to speak with ye…"

Thomasina and Sean joined the group and the horses shifted around them.

Diarmuid's gaze did not wander. "I am listening now."

"Marcán." Sean acknowledged him with a nod. Then he mounted his horse in a single leap and reached down to pull Thomasina up in front of him.

Thomasina's quiet laughter carried to them. "Do ye fear I will leave ye if I am given my own mount?" she asked.

"I will not take the chance," Sean replied.

"Diarmuid," Thomasina said, "is Aednat not joining us?"

Diarmuid finally turned to the overking and his wife. "A long ride for one still recovering, but I will return straightaway."

Sean adjusted the reins, his horse shifting farther away from Brighit's antsy mount.

"I sense an urgency among our group. Reidh?"

Keen disappointment ripped through Marcán, but he stepped back, ready to see them off. He could not risk upsetting the overking. Certainly when Diarmuid returned, there would be a great celebration to go along with his betrothal to Astrid.

Diarmuid, however, remained unmoving. He glanced at Sean. "Give us a moment."

Sean tipped his head, turning his horse about to exchange pleasantries with the others in the group.

Diarmuid took hold of Marcán's arm in a surprisingly strong grip, leading him a few feet away before releasing him. "If there's something ye need to speak to me about, best ye say it. Waiting at this point can come to no good."

The man knew! Anger tightened Marcán's face and he crossed his arms. "Would I be telling ye anything ye didn't know by now?"

Diarmuid raised his brows, not even trying to hide his annoyance. "I said waiting at this point can come to no good."

"If ye know I am in love with yer sister, why would ye make me wait and ask ye when ye know how difficult 'tis been to speak with ye? Just let me take her to wife and put me out of my misery."

Diarmuid's eyes narrowed. "I'm thinking there's not been too much misery. Something else entirely, something much more pleasant."

Heat spread across Marcán's face. Diarmuid's attempt at embarrassing him was quite effective. "Never without a promise to be joined in truth. I will have the church's—and yer—blessing."

"Ye've had my blessing from the beginning."

"The beginning?"

Diarmuid snorted a laugh. "Even when I had no idea what ye saw in Astrid, or if she'd ever come to her own realization about ye."

"With yer mother scheming against me for her own purposes, what was I to think?"

Tipping his head, Diarmuid replied, "And was I to make it so very easy on ye? What sort of man would ye be if I needed to fight yer battles?"

"I'd lost hope she'd ever come around." It felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and his sigh of relief was long and deep. "I've wanted her forever."

Seeing the warning in his friend's eyes, Marcán realized how lustful he'd sounded and spoke more quickly. "She's the only woman I've ever wanted to take to wife."

Diarmuid watched him a moment more before nodding his head, a tightness around his mouth. "Heed my warning. There's some sort of trouble about that ye'll need to see to… and I give ye leave to deal with it however ye decide."

"Would that be yer mother's scheming?" Marcán spat out the words.

"I trust ye with my sister, but tread lightly until I can announce it myself."

Marcán gritted his teeth, his patience at an end. Diarmuid's agreement was all he'd ever sought. It was all that had held him back from outwardly seeing her as his own. The thought of waiting even longer did not sit well with him. "Why the delay? Diar—"

Diarmuid raised a gloved hand to halt his word. "It seems my sister is quite different from our mother after all and chooses not to be the cyclone causing havoc. If there is trouble between our clan and the Meic Murchadha over yer betrothal, I prefer it be on my head and not yers. I need to see to this matter with Sean. Do what ye need to in my absence, but be certain to protect her from any that would harm her… as if she were yer own, even now."

"My thanks." Marcán clasped his wrist, pulling him closer for a hug and a slap on the back. "My thanks!"

"Do we have more cause for celebration?" Thomasina asked, Sean shifting their horse around so they were openly watching them.

Diarmuid leapt onto his horse before answering. "Indeed, but an event such as this requires time, which I will not have until my return. Let us be off so my return will be sooner."

Marcán watched them long after they were out of his sight, thinking over Diarmuid's warning… and his consent to allow Marcán to see to the matter as he saw fit. He would do just that. With determined steps he entered the roundhouse, his eyes seeking and finding Astrid easily among the bustling crowd cleaning up the room and preparing it for their daily duties. He stopped to watch her, contentment settling in his gut with the knowledge of Diarmuid's blessing. Dare he share that with her? Would she be as excited as he was? She'd been quiet in the shed, too quickly running off even as Marcán had been inclined to make love yet again. Her kiss goodbye had been sweet—

He stood straighter as he remembered her kiss and parting words.

Know that I carry yer love in my heart always.

The finality of those words struck him now. With a deeply furrowed brow, she appeared upset even from this distance. When her mother came to stand beside her, that worried look only deepened, and Beibhinn's words caused her to gawk at the woman. Before Marcán could get his feet to move closer, they both turned to him, almost as if the old woman's words had been about him. The look of satisfaction on Beibhinn's face only increased his trepidation, but Astrid's expression of horror had him quickly closing the distance. Beibhinn drifted away.

"What is amiss?" Suddenly aware of the others in the room, he stopped himself from reaching out to her. "Is it washing day?"

She dropped her gaze to the material in her hand. "My mother prefers I keep to my embroidery and allow the others to see to such things."

Her voice was tight, and Marcán's sense of disquiet deepened. To hell with anyone watching. He touched her hand, and she looked up at him with wide eyes.

"What has ye so upset? Is yer mother causing problems still?"

Astrid's obvious attempt at composure made him even more worried. Fear rippling through his gut, he moved in closer still. "Tell me what she has said to make ye so upset."

"Marcán!" Beibhinn called to him with a stern tone.

He did not look away from Astrid but lowered his voice. "I can give aid only if ye tell me what is amiss."

"Leave my daughter alone."

The woman had the audacity to come right up to him, even pulling on his arm until he finally turned his anger on her. "Remove yer hand from me,woman."

The sudden quiet assured him they had the attention of all in the room, but Beibhinn refused to listen.

"Do not be upsetting Astrid." Beibhinn spat the words at him.

"Ye are the only one upsetting anyone here." Marcán's soft words were for her ears alone, then he met the eyes of those taking in the scene, raising his voice to them. "Move along with yer work."

They immediately dispersed, which eased Marcán's rapidly rising ire. Slightly. He got a quick glimpse of Astrid—her trembling lips, the huge tears slipping down her cheeks—but he kept his attention on Beibhinn. "Obey me or bear the consequences, woman!"

The old woman dropped his arm as if she'd been touching something quite repulsive and took a step back. An expression of satisfaction moved across her face and she smiled. "And ye would do well to do the same."

When Astrid pulled her hand out of his grip, he finally looked at her. Her face was controlled now, her fingers clasped so tight they were colorless. Marcán had seen Astrid be pushed around by her mother for years. Pathetically desperate for her mother's approval, Astrid had always struggled against Beibhinn's dominant ways but avoided direct confrontation.

"She does not appreciate such familiarity," Beibhinn said.

Astrid's expression remained unchanged but for her gently flaring nostrils. Marcán recognized the anger sitting just below the surface.

While Diarmuid had once dismissed his sister as being too much like his mother—and their mother certainly believed she had bullied Astrid into obeying—Marcán had watched the fire in Astrid's eyes for years. He knew her deep need to break away from her mother's side. Her mother may have believed she'd cowed Astrid into approaching Pádraig about their joining, but she'd only done Beibhinn's bidding as a last attempt to escape her clutches.

"And neither will her betrothed," Beibhinn added.

The words felt like a fist into his gut and Marcán turned wide eyes to Beibhinn. "Betrothed?"

"Oh, did ye not hear of her betrothal to Pádraig?"

Blood pounded in his ears, and Marcán gritted his teeth before speaking. Diarmuid's order to hold back on making the announcement until he returned tied Marcán's hands.

"I did hear of yer desire for such a joining, but I did not hear Diarmuid announce any such thing."

"There was not enough time for the announcement before he left."

The woman lied. Marcán exhaled slowly, struggling against the desire to allow his ire to erupt. He would know satisfaction in the end, no matter what Beibhinn was plotting.

"Ye are claiming there is a betrothal between Astrid and Pádraig?"

"His father and I discussed it even before he passed." Beibhinn shrugged. "And it was her father's wish as well. Kane would be quite pleased."

Marcán couldn't help turning his astonished gaze to Astrid. She had spoken of her father but never mentioned any such agreement. On the contrary, she'd said her father had left her without prospects. Beibhinn's lies had grown bolder.

"'Tis an agreement between us, as he is soon to be ri túaithe for his clan. Ye would do well to keep yer distance from her henceforth."

And that fact was no doubt what was making Beibhinn so giddy at the prospect of Astrid wedding Pádraig. Astrid's sudden paleness was making it difficult for Marcán to take a breath. He wished she would find the courage now to reject her mother's words and stand up to these lies. Surely she realized he would support her.

Despite the near panic crawling across his body like a thousand spiders, Marcán crossed his arms about his chest and gave Beibhinn a speculative look. "Have ye no care for yer daughter? That man is a most vile creature."

"Yer opinions will matter very little to either of us once we are happily reunited with my clan."

"Ye mean once ye are reunited. 'Twould not be reuniting for Astrid, as she is not a Meic Murchadha."

"Not yet!" Beibhinn countered.

"Not ever!" Marcán's temper flared and his words came out louder than intended. Astrid's small hand on his arm brought his gaze back to her. When she shook her head in silent resignation, he felt the floor shift beneath him.

"Ye are agreeing to this?" He regretted the question as soon as he spoke it.

It gave power to Beibhinn's words and put Astrid on the defensive. That her chin trembled against her tears confirmed his worst fears. She would allow her mother to continue to bully her. When he moved toward her, intent on comforting her and giving her the strength she needed, Beibhinn got between them.

"See to yer duties," Beibhinn said. "I will see to my daughter."

He had more to say. Much more. If this woman cared for her daughter at all, it was a well-hidden affection. The look of fear on Astrid's face made him hold his tongue. Stiffly, he gave them his back, keeping his eyes focused on the door to the outside. Forcing one foot in front of the other, Marcán made it out of the roundhouse, but his mind was in a fog, uncertainty nipping at his heals like an irritating mutt.

"Marcán."

Someone called his name and he turned toward the sound without thinking. His mind awhirl with events and sights, he struggled to decide how best to proceed. Two men had come up alongside him, but Marcán's mind refused to recognize them. He was certain he could no longer feel his own breath in his body.

"Murdoch?" It was Ian who spoke, he realized, and through the haze in his mind, the lad's concerned expression struck a nerve.

When Ian turned toward the older man at his side, Marcán tightened his resolve to focus.

"I have spoken to ye of Marcán, son of Colmán," Ian said.

Both sets of eyes turned toward Marcán, but he was again feeling the touch of Astrid's hand on his arm, seeing the defeated look in her eyes when she had shaken her head and told him no.

"Ah, yes, Marcán. My name is Murdoch, son of Alastar. Happy I am to see ye again. I remember yer father well, Marcán," said the older man with snowy white hair and a matching beard. "A fine man indeed, and I hear the same of ye."

Marcán made no response, and the man glanced toward Ian, a questioning expression. The men serving on the council changed depending on who was available, and this was not a man Marcán recognized. His thoughts drifted. Why would Astrid agree to a betrothal to Pádraig?

"We do not wish to impose on ye, but were wondering if ye could offer yer assistance," Murdoch said. "With Diarmuid away and my brother ill, the councilis short. We're in a bind and there are pressing matters that cannot await his return."

Marcán's thoughts turned to his father. He had served on the council for many years, wearing his long, fur-lined robes, the gold circle brooch prominently displayed. The symbol of their council. He'd worn the mantle with pride, and his mother's delight in him had been undeniable.

"Ye are truly needed, Marcán." Ian's voice was stern, more stern than Marcán had ever heard the boy, and that fact pressed through his disturbed meanderings. "The final decision of who will lead our clan comes before them."

The choice of the Meic Murchadha's ri was the pressing matter? Marcán's eyes focused on Ian, the boy's eyes widening with meaning and his body taut as a bow. The older man was saying more, but Marcán had stopped listening as his brain churned over the implications of participating in this meeting of the derb fine at this particular time—just as the great Pádraig Meic Murchadha was about to come before them for their blessing.

The flat line of Marcán's lips loosened just a bit. Ian watched him, his eyes narrowing as if attempting to puzzle out his thoughts. Marcán let the smile lighten his face and acknowledged the answering relief on Ian's face with a pat on the lad's back.

"Ah, Murdoch," Marcán said, "'twould give me great pleasure indeed to assist on the council at this time."

Murdoch's frown lifted and he smiled. "I believe ye will bring great wisdom to our table. My thanks."

"And I shall serve as diligently as my father before me. None shall be taking advantage of this council."

The man nodded, his gray eyes piercing Marcán. He'd swear he caught a sigh of relief. Was this one of the men Ian had insisted was indebted to Pádraig, or had Murdoch heard the same rumors as the lad? Regardless, Marcán would make sure, one way or another, that Pádraig would not be taking over as ri túaithe of Clan Meic Murchadha, not if he had a breath left in his body.