Chapter 18

Days flew by in a blur, followed by sleepless nights, leaving Marcán's insides raw and his temper short. Beibhinn had been surprisingly effective in finding ways to keep him from speaking with Astrid. And although each night he went to their place of refuge and waited for her, she never came to him again.

Clonmacnoise, the same spot where Diarmuid Uí Cerbaill, the first Christian High King of éire had been crowned, was where the council would meet. The glen was marked on four sides by massive boulders where animal sacrifices had been performed during pagan times, a reminder of the many sacred ceremonies that had taken place there, including the anointing of many a ri. The council would attend in all their finery, with much celebration to follow.

"The council is waiting on ye." The black circles under Ian's eyes indicated he shared the same malady as Marcán but for different reasons. The lack of sleep made the boy look much older.

"Are ye not well?" Marcán asked.

Ian lowered his gaze. "I have been unable to keep any food down. 'Twas the same for my father before he passed."

Marcán gripped the lad's shoulder and met his frightened gaze. "Ye fear ye are being poisoned?"

The simple nod spoke of the lad's feelings of defeat. Marcán handed him his cup of mead. It certainly was not poisoned. "Drink this to keep up yer strength. I am ready for this. Do not fash yerself."

Ian nodded and finished the drink.

"Come. Let us see this done," Marcán said.

Despite Marcán's words of assurance, he could think of only one way to give the aid Ian had requested, and he wasn't certain it was something he could do. There had been secret meetings with the others in the derb fine, but no clear decision had yet been made. That was telling in itself, since there was no competition and anyone who met the requirements should have been granted approval. Not this time. Instead, it was being left up to Pádraig to state his case, showing his worthiness to be named ri túaithe.

There was a great deal of satisfaction to be had in the knowledge that these men were not falling over themselves to pay homage to Pádraig. The man was a vile creature, and not just in his treatment of women. Their clan had fallen far from acceptable practices, even if they did not directly break their laws. If any of the derb fine were now willing to overlook that behavior, it would send a sure signal that would drop all higher expectations. No longer would there be a standard of behavior.

They were meeting as agreed at the place of anointment. A king would be decided today either way. Many were gathered in anticipation of the ceremony and the feasting that would follow. The workers lay about on their blankets with the children jumping around and making mischief. And why not? It was a bright, sunny day. Very unusual for this time of year, which many saw as a good sign—not that they believed in such things.

"Murdoch!" Pádraig was clasping the older man's hand, his eyes squinting at the corners in a show of sheer happiness, when Marcán took his seat at the long table. The quickness with which Pádraig's affable countenance dropped was almost humorous. "Marcán?"

His recovery was not quick enough to hide his annoyance. Marcán could not have ordered a better response, for it revealed the man's true nature.

"Pádraig." Marcán's low, steady tone was met by the man's confused glare. There was never any advance notice given of who would be at a meeting, who would be providing their counsel. If Ian was correct about Pádraig's influence, his ally was not someone informed of the latest developments. Otherwise, he'd have heard of the new addition to their numbers, wouldn't he? Marcán glanced to the farthest man to his right. The red-headed father of the twins, Eric and Eoghan. The man had arrived only this day, traveling from some trouble farther to the south. He was the reason the anointing had been postponed.

Pádraig's bright blue eyes turned on Murdoch. "What is amiss? Why is Marcán at table?"

His accusatory tone was met with a stoic expression by their leader. "Pádraig, if ye've a mind to approach us with yer desire to become king, ye'll need to show us proper respect."

"I am not required to receive yer approval, though it would be beneficial." Pádraig's eyes shifted to Marcán repeatedly as he spoke. "Even knowing that, I am mindful that the man has no great regard for me. I am concerned at how fair he can be in considering me so that I may receive yer acceptance as king."

Murdoch did not move. Neither his body nor his direct gaze, which now held the man as if by an unseen force. "This councilis a body of men outside the petty fighting between clans, and well ye know it. Ye insult each of us by voicing concerns over the motives of any one of us."

Marcán kept his eyes locked on Pádraig, as he would any contemptible creature that intended to do harm. Murdoch's response had shut Pádraig's mouth, and now he was angry. More than angry, livid. The clenching fists. The flaring nostrils. The way his eyes flashed when they finally settled on Marcán.

All these things gave Marcán great satisfaction, and he met Pádraig's glare with a smile. A quiet smile. A smile meant to raise his hackles even more. A smile meant to unnerve the man, causing him to slip up in this pretense of solemnity and respect for a group he'd had the audacity to try to bribe. A smile meant to stir him into action that would reveal his true nature. Even if the derb fine's approval was not required, a king would have a hard time garnering support from more warriors if the council expressed disapproval.

"And what of Diarmuid, Marcán? Have ye heard from him?" Murdoch asked.

"He has returned and is seeing to his wife." Marcán addressed Murdoch but kept his eye on Pádraig.

"But ye'll stay on with us, will ye not?"

Marcán did not miss the spark of hope that flickered in Pádraig's eyes. A spark he was happy to extinguish. "Without a doubt. I would not want to be missing such an important decision as this."

Murdoch nodded. "True enough. True enough. The túath covered by this new king is strategic. We need someone of great influence and power to keep our coasts protected." He turned to Pádraig. "What say ye? Do ye have what it takes to defend this land? Yer father was ri túaithe for a considerable number of years."

So the questioning began. Pádraig shifted to a more amicable stance and accepted the seat that had been brought to him. He nodded, but before he could respond, Marcán interjected. "And I heard he kept ye under his thumb rather than have ye share in the oversight."

Mumbles rippled beside him as the others at the heavy, wooden table considered his words. The redhead remained apart, his eyes darting between the other men and Pádraig. Marcán was confident he had indeed located the compromised member.

The narrowing of Pádraig's eyes was the only indication that Marcán's comment had hit its mark.

"Ye are in error, Marcán. My father took me with him always; in battle, to the villages, even having me sit beside him when complaints were brought forth. I have vast experience in caring for our clan lands." He turned to include the others before continuing. "And have done him quite proud in how quickly I've learned."

The mumbles shifted to a more accommodating tone.

"And yet he is not among us to say so." Marcán paused, feeling the eyes of the others upon him. "Was it in battle then that I heard ye were found lacking?"

A quiet hush fell across the men as well as those gathered around, their eyes wide with wonder at the accusation. And by the look on Pádraig's face, he was seething. Marcán's chest filled with anticipation at the opportunity to finally knock this man on his arse. When Pádraig stood to drop the sack from his side and the mantle from his shoulders, Marcán did the same, his eager fists clenching at his sides.

But Murdoch quickly rose to stop them. With his hands patting the air in a conciliatory gesture, he said, "Gentlemen, please. Settle yerselves as we address this matter peaceably." His light eyes, shaded with a thick gray brow, shifted from Pádraig to settle on Marcán. "Once peace has been proved ineffective, we will certainly see the matter dealt with in this manner. Are ye agreed?"

Marcán inclined his head in acceptance, settling again on the bench. He could certainly wait for his chance to kick Pádraig's arse.

"I have never heard such a thing, Marcán." The redhead leaned forward to make eye contact with him. "Pádraig made his father quite proud in all he accomplished."

"My thanks," Pádraig said. "I see both yer sons quickly following in my tracks."

And thus the means by which Pádraig had acquired his support was revealed. No doubt Eric or Eoghan would be named tánaiste. Murdoch continued with the questions, others at the table joining in, and Marcán bided his time.

Before too long, a break was called, and Marcán could not get away soon enough. Although he had noticed Astrid in the crowd, she'd avoided looking directly at him. But he could not avoid her. She was like the moon in a cloudless night, calling his eyes to her, beckoning him not to look away. From the graceful manner with which she'd settled on the blanket beside her mother—whose tongue never stopped flapping—to the way she kept gazing off into the distance, toward the unseen ocean, her shoulders straight and proud, he couldn't focus on anything but her. And he moved toward her at his first opportunity.

"Astrid?" Marcán's voice was quiet, his eyes on Beibhinn, who had just left.

Astrid's bright blue eyes widened at the sight of him and her lowering lashes did not hide a look of excitement.

"I have missed ye."

Astrid shook her head. "Ye should not say such things."

With the slightest brush of his fingers across her cheek, he savored the feel of her before dropping his hand and looking around to see that no one observed him. "'Tis how I feel… and ye as well."

"I do not."

If not for the tightness in her voice, Marcán might have actually believed her. Beibhinn had managed yet again to twist Astrid to her will. Should he tell them both of Diarmuid's blessing? Mayhap not. Astrid clearly believed that he, Marcán, would give up on her. He needed to show her that there were no lengths to which he would not go for her.

"Ye forget how well I know ye."

Others were busy around them as food and drink were brought to a side table set up for that purpose. He took the opportunity to move in closer, again glimpsing over his shoulder.

"Look at me, my love." His voice was quiet, but the finger that tipped her head up to his was insistent.

Her eyes were filled with tears. "Do not."

"I will." He thumbed the single tear slipping down her cheek. "Ye will not cry on account of me."

"I have no choice."

"Ye do." With his palm flat against her cheek, he lowered his lips to hers for the gentlest of kisses. The taste was sweeter than he remembered, the softness of her lips a boon to his shredded nerves. Despite his desire to ignore all around them, he heard the surprised sounds of the crowd, followed by quiet murmurings about this public display. He pulled back enough that he could look into her eyes. "Ye are not alone, my love. I am here with ye. I will stand beside ye against any that look to hurt ye even when 'tis yer own flesh and blood. I vow this to ye. Always."

Her eyes rounded. "I love ye and will love ye until I have breathed my last."

The unexpected declaration caused a sudden tightness in his chest, and an aching began deep down inside him. "I have waited so very long for ye. Do not push me away now that we have found each other."

"If I had a choice, I would not…" She swallowed, fighting for her composure. "I would not see ye hurt because of me. I would prefer ye live a long, happy life."

Marcán was so close, his breath brushed her face. How she longed to move into his embrace and accept his kisses. That was where she belonged and she knew it. Her knees weakened with the desire to take his strength upon herself.

"Clearly someone has threatened me and ye wish to protect me," Marcán said.

Her jaw dropped at his astuteness, but she quickly recovered. "Suffice to say I would die before I saw ye harmed."

"I would be the same as dead if I could not take ye to wife."

He did not realize that if she rejected her mother's desire that she marry Pádraig, Beibhinn would proclaim him a Seer and have him burned at the stake. Astrid could never allow that. She would rather subject herself to marrying a cruel, depraved man than see one hair on Marcán's head harmed. "But ye will have life."

"Astrid!" Beibhinn's shrill cry carried above the din, quieting those around them. "I leave ye for a moment and ye throw yerself into this man's arms?"

Others were following this interplay, including Pádraig. Marcán's face tightened and he turned, ready to face her mother.

"Do not!" Astrid whispered her plea, but he showed no sign of hearing her.

"Will ye take yerself away from her!" Beibhinn yanked Astrid's arm, pulling her closer and turning her so they were facing each other. "Why must ye throw yerself at every man?"

Marcán latched onto Beibhinn's arm. "Do not speak to her so."

His voice was much quieter and those around moved in closer, desperate to not miss a word of the drama playing out before them. Astrid cringed.

"How dare ye tell me what I may do with my own daughter."

"Ye will not speak to her so." Marcán lowered his face to Beibhinn's, looking into her eyes. "If ye persist in behaving thus, I will gladly see ye punished as one who demonstrates no restraint on their mouth."

"Do not threaten me. I am—"

"Ye are what? Who is it ye believe ye are to belittle yer daughter? To humiliate her so?"

"Enough, Marcán." Pádraig stepped to the front of the crowds gathered close around them. "Ye overstep yerself."

A knowing smile worked its way across Marcán's face as he stood to his full height then turned to the man. "Do ye speak to me?"

"I do."

"By what right?"

"As the lass's betrothed."

A gasp rose from the crowd, followed by instant chatter as if a signal had been given for each person to begin talking at once. Marcán raised his hand, and the group fell silent. He glanced at Astrid, but she couldn't meet his gaze.

"Now how is that possible? I believe she has been spoken for. When our ri sees fit to make the announcement of whom she will wed"—Marcán moved to stand toe to toe with Pádraig—"ye are not the one he will name."

"The words of the Seer are a lie." Beibhinn's voice rang out as clear as a bell and all those gathered around took a great step back, their eyes wide with fear. "And ye are an abomination!"

"Mamaídh!" Astrid hissed the words, shock gripping her gut. "Do not."

Pádraig smiled, a huge smile, and said, "As I am the one who deflowered her, I am willing to take her to wife."

The man never saw the punch coming. Astrid screamed and jumped back while Marcán's fists flew, catching Pádraig's face, his sides, and the flat of his stomach. The man appeared too dumbfounded to even move, finally responding by protecting himself with both arms. One or two misplaced punches were all the liar could manage. The crowd cheered, quickly choosing Marcán's side over Pádraig's, despite Beibhinn's declarations.

Pádraig's face was bloody and he doubled over in pain before the combined efforts of Murdoch, Faolán, and Ian successfully hauled Marcán back from his assault. Marcán was winded but clearly still ready for more, while Pádraig was dragged to a bench to recover.

Gripping his chin, Marcán shifted his jaw back and forth before impatiently wiping the blood from the side of his mouth. His chest heaving, he did not look directly at Astrid, but she sensed he knew she stood but a few feet behind him. Even now, he was ready to continue defending her virtue while she merely stood there, awed by his courage. The wrongness of that suddenly struck her.

Beibhinn straightened beside her, preparing to open her mouth, but Astrid yanked her mother's arm before she could put herself at the center and declare her damnation of the man Astrid loved. There was no way to know how the crowd would shift. Would they join her mother's demand for punishment? Or would they stop and think and realize Marcán was a good man and a brave warrior?

"Do not." Astrid used her firmest tone, her gaze locking onto her mother's eyes, which widened in surprise or outrage. Astrid couldn't be certain which, and cared even less.

Beibhinn's face tightened. "I will! Do not defy me in this, daughter."

"To what purpose?" she asked, clipping each word. The need to defend Marcán rather than cower to the side blossomed in Astrid's chest and refused to be denied.

"I will not have ye marrying that man. He is in league with the devil."

If her mother didn't have her own motives for wanting to prevent the union, Astrid might have been convinced of her mother's concern. As it was, she knew the truth, and there was no reason a good man should be left in the wake of her mother's all-consuming selfishness. "I tell ye he is not."

Beibhinn moved in close. "Ye are taken in by his fine manners and bravery, but I tell ye he is in league with the devil and needs to be taken down. His mother was the very same."

The words caught Astrid off guard and she paused. All she knew of Marcán's parents was what he'd shared over the years. They had been very deeply in love. She could remember no instance when her mother had ever spoken to either of them.

"His mother?" Astrid had a sudden acuteness of hearing and sight. Her mind became fixed on this woman before her, as if seeing her for the first time. The deep lines at her mouth from years of scowling and unhappiness, the dullness of her skin, and the perpetual look of upset. Outrage and disbelief filled every corner of Astrid's body and she let her tone say as much. "Ye did not like his mother?"

"A bad seed, that one."

A handsome warrior with hair dark as night.

Like Marcán!

I remember him still…

Yet he chose another.

Astrid took a deep breath, trying to quell her indignation enough to speak. "And what of his father?"

Beibhinn blushed and glanced away. "He was taken in by her wicked ways."

Astrid staggered back as if she'd received a blow to the head. "Ye did not like Marcán's mother, so ye do not want me to care for her son? A wonderful, loving man? Ye would prefer I marry a defiler of women?" Her voice was getting louder, but she didn't care who heard. "I cannot be with Marcán because ye were in love with his father?"

Her mother's look of warning only brought a smile to Astrid's face. A smile of relief. A smile of release from any guilt. A smile of sweet satisfaction.

"His father chose another over ye, so ye wish to punish the son?" Astrid asked. "Ye do not care for anyone but yerself!" Astrid stabbed her finger at Beibhinn. "Ye are a horrid woman! I denounce ye as my mother. No creature as baleful as ye deserves a daughter as loving as me."

Confusion covered her mother's face, but Astrid turned away, refusing to say more. She walked toward Marcán, whose expression was unreadable, and took his hand and stood beside him. He never took his eyes off her. There were people gathered around them, whispering, but she paid them no mind.

"Again, I say ye are not a woman to be crossed." Marcán's quiet words brought the flash of a smile.

"And well ye know it," she said, her head still shaking in disbelief. "This is all about yer father, Marcán. Is her behavior not a terrible disgrace for any mother?"

"I am sorry, my love." He lifted their joined hands and kissed hers. "But glad I am that ye stood up to her."

"She wants to see ye burned as a Seer."

Marcán scoffed. "I am not afeared of what she can do. Rest easy, a ghráidh."

It took but a moment for Beibhinn to recover, her face tightening into an angry mask. "Seer!" She delivered the words in a loud, clear voice, but no one moved. "That man is a Seer! He should be burned alive!"

Those gathered around her shook their heads, unsure how to proceed.

"Call for the priest," Beibhinn demanded in a shrill voice.