Chapter 19

The crowd that had gathered around took several steps back, away from Beibhinn, too afeared of her to stand up to her declaration naming Marcán a Seer. Astrid felt a tug of sympathy for the pathetic woman who instilled fear by her very presence because of her many wild accusations.

"The priest is here."

It was Fintan who stepped forward, closing the distance to the woman. A man with a long brown robe followed him. A bit older than Diarmuid, he was a handsome man with broad shoulders. But for the small shaved spot on the back of his head, he could easily be a warrior. Even his ready stance made him appear able and well-trained.

"I have brought ye the priest, Beibhinn, just as ye asked. This is Father Thomas."

"Oh, Fintan, my dear friend." Beibhinn crossed to the man, hugging him tightly before facing the priest. Her expression serious. "We have dire concerns here, Father. Seers… and healers, all practicing the dark arts."

The man in the brown robe nodded his head, as if considering Beibhinn's words. Astrid felt the world tilt beneath her, and she squeezed Marcán's hand. They needed to escape before the priest could hurt him, but Marcán didn't seem inclined to move. The look of love and confidence he bestowed on her warmed her heart. He kissed her on the lips, a gentle kiss. "Be easy."

"Beibhinn," the priest spoke. "It has been many years since last I saw ye. Do ye not remember me?"

Immediately perplexed, Beibhinn's expression turned to one of confusion, and she shook her head. The priest's eyes held hers a moment before the man nodded to Fintan. Astrid couldn't be certain what that meant.

Wearing a stoic expression now, the priest strolled within the little circle as if contemplating the best way to continue. He looked from face to face, acknowledging a few by name. Then he came to Marcán and stopped.

"Is this the man ye accuse?"

"The same. That is Marcán, son of Colmán."

Astrid cringed at the way the priest searched Marcán's face. She hugged his arm against her breast. No one could entice her to release him.

"And yer concerns, Beibhinn?"

"This man," she pointed directly at Marcán, "is a Seer."

"And is yer evidence against the man well-founded?"

"Very well-founded. Do ye not see his eyes? Two different colors. The mark of the devil."

Thomas tilted his head. "Hmm, I do not believe I have ever heard such a thing as that. What of ye, Marcán?"

Beibhinn blanched. "Why are ye asking him? He will not admit it!"

The priest held up his hand to silence her. Raising his brows in question at Marcán, he awaited a response to his question.

"I have only heard of such things from her… several times, and from others who have also heard it from her."

"And why do ye suppose she believes a Seer needs to have two different-colored eyes?" Thomas asked.

"Accusations are usually made against those who are different, are they not?" Marcán heaved a great sigh before speaking. "I have two different-colored eyes."

"I agree." The priest turned to her again. "Is that yer only proof?"

Beibhinn dropped her gaze as if searching for an answer. "Well, he… he sometimes knows… when it will rain!" The triumphant expression returned. "Quite often I have heard him declare as much."

With lowered brows, Thomas responded, "The ability to tell from the clouds and the direction of the wind that it will rain does not make one a Seer, it makes one observant. Admittedly, he is more observant than most and always has been. How fare ye, Marcán?"

Gasping as the two men clasped hands, Beibhinn said nothing, but Astrid's heart soared. This priest knew Marcán!

"Thomas. How was yer trip?"

The priest tipped his head and shrugged his shoulders. "The same as it always is this time of year. Cold nights and dreary days."

Fintan moved closer to Beibhinn, whose head was violently shaking, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Why would ye wish the man to be punished as a Seer?" His voice was soothing, and she accepted his comforting embrace but remained quiet. "Marcán is a good man, Beibhinn. Kane thought so as well."

Astrid held her breath. She had few memories of her father with Marcán, although they must have spent much time together. Marcán had been chosen as tánaiste for Diarmuid because her brother believed it would have pleased their father. Her father must have thought quite a lot of Marcán. Tears gathered in her eyes as this realization sank in.

"And ye know that is what ye fought about the most," Fintan said.

Astrid stiffened, ignoring the light squeeze of Marcán's hand. She was intent on Fintan, the man who had known her father so well, who could tell her how he'd truly felt.

"I remember well it was ye who did not like the thought of yer daughter marrying Colmán's son."

"Because of who his mother was!"

"Colmán and Kane had been the best of friends, Beibhinn. Ye forced Kane to turn from Colmán because of yer own viciousness, but he would not turn from the son."

Beibhinn's imploring expression nearly choked Astrid with tears. "Colmán was mine. Doran said 'twas so and then he allowed that witch to marry my betrothed."

Fintan took Beibhinn into his arms while she cried. When his eyes met Astrid's, he nodded and offered her a reassuring smile. She had not heard wrong and her heart soared. Her father had wanted her to be betrothed to Marcán.

Astrid wiped at the tears slipping down her cheeks, but Marcán tipped her face up, bestowing a gentle kiss on her lips.

"It seems yer father did choose for ye, Astrid. He chose me."

"As do I."

Thomas came alongside them, glanced down at Astrid and then smiled. "And is this the woman ye never spoke of by name, Marcán? The reason ye would not join us?"

Astrid frowned and looked up at Marcán. "Ye considered becoming a priest?"

Marcán gave her a beaming smile. "Never seriously."

The expression on Thomas's face indicated he definitely had a different opinion on the matter.

Thomas's eyes shifted to Astrid. "Do ye know he reads and writes Latin better than most priests?"

Astrid shook her head and they both turned toward Marcán, who replied, "I enjoy the learning."

"Ye were considering the priesthood." The priest's tone left no room for doubt.

"But for the fact he'd no penchant for abstinence." Diarmuid's voice cut through the assembly, causing every head to turn toward him. He was quite a sight, riding into the throng of onlookers, who gave him a wide path to enter.

Thomas replied, "Ah, but abstinence is not required everywhere. Not yet."

"'Tis only a matter of time." Diarmuid jumped from his horse, handing the reins to the lad who'd come to assist. "My apologies for the late arrival, Murdoch. I needed to… reacquaint myself with my bride."

"Welcome, Diarmuid." Murdoch said from his position at the table, where he'd remained with the others. "I have heard of yer Aednat. How fares she?"

"She is well."

"I look forward to meeting her."

"And so ye shall." Diarmuid nodded, then turned to the crowd, pulling off his riding gloves. "And what is amiss here? I see we have the good Father in our presence. Are we disproving my mother's tales of devil worship at last?"

Thomas inclined his head but offered no further explanation. Diarmuid's gaze went to his mother, who withdrew from Fintan's arms.

"Ye should heed me, son, not make light of my warnings."

"And is that what ye went to tell Doran when ye visited the Meic Murchadha, pretending ‘twas to collect our sheep? While ye sent Astrid off to flirt with Pádraig?"

"I didn't speak to Dor—"

Diarmuid halted her with a raise of his hand. "Others saw ye coming from his room, mother. I have spoken to them myself."

Beibhinn's lips flashed a smile. "Oh, I had forgotten. Ye are correct. I went to speak to him about uniting our two clans through the joining of Pádraig and Astrid. He was very ple—"

"He had refused to see ye." Diarmuid's firm tone matched his expression.

Beibhinn quickly shook her head, but Diarmuid would have none of it.

"They said he became upset with ye for forcing yer way into his room." He pulled the sack from his belt, opened it, and withdrew a square, jeweled box. "And that ye had sent this to him in apology for upsetting him."

Beibhinn's face went white, her eyes wide. "I… I do not recall."

"Ah, Beibhinn, what have ye done?" Fintan's sad question went unanswered.

Diarmuid kept the item closed and flat on his open palm. "Doran has always been well protected and surrounded by his men. Even if ye forgot, they did not. They said ye begged him to forgive ye, to allow ye to return to the clan of yer youth."

Beibhinn closed her lips flat, her face becoming stoic, and said no more.

"Ye should speak in yer defense." Fintan's eyes remained on her. "Do ye wish to tell me?"

Her eyes darted from him to Diarmuid and then back again as if she were a trapped animal looking to escape. Or a crazed woman. She did not move.

"Doran told his men ye were never to be allowed back." Diarmuid glanced at Pádraig, who slowly approached, an expression of dread on his face. "He also told them ye were not to be trusted."

"I've seen that box." Pádraig's distress was apparent. "It sat beside my father's bed when we found him. I don't remember seeing it before that time."

"Beibhinn, do ye wish to explain about the box?" Diarmuid asked.

It was as if she did not hear the question.

Diarmuid lifted the lid to reveal the dark leaves of the chamomile bush, dried and brittle. He pinched it a bit, rubbing it between his fingers, before dropping it back into the pile. Beibhinn looked on with wide eyes, her breathing labored, as he reached in again. When he pressed his finger deeper into the box, Beibhinn could hold back no longer.

"Cease!"

Diarmuid's hand stilled, the leaves no longer touching his fingers. "Is aught amiss, dear mother?"

"Do not touch the leaves… they are… poisoned."

A gasp went up from those around them, Pádraig's being the loudest. "What say ye? Ye gave my father poison?"

Beibhinn gulped, her eyes wide as she spoke. "Doran promised me if I were to win over Colmán, I would be married to an even more powerful king when the two clans were united. He promised he would step down and Colmán would rule alone. I had only to woo him into offering for my hand and all would be seen to.

"But that witch from the islands came and"—Beibhinn snapped her fingers—"Colmán fell in love with her. He couldn't set me, or his ambitious dreams, aside fast enough. I was in love with him, but Doran refused to enforce the agreement we had reached. I was given to Kane instead."

"Ye killed my father?" Ian's words were quiet against her loud, harsh explanation. He came to stand beside his brother and they exchanged glances.

"Did ye believe 'twas me, little brother?" Pádraig asked.

"It had occurred to me," Ian said haltingly. "Ye were both so angry."

Pádraig lowered his gaze. "I loved him, but not his fists… and not his fists on our sister."

"I am sorry, Pádraig," Ian said.

Searching Ian's face, Pádraig seemed to be looking for something. "I see yer mother in ye. She was obedient and thoughtful, which pleased our father greatly. My mother was willful and defiant, and he wished to break her. He saw her behavior in everything Daimhin and I ever attempted. We could not escape his wrath."

"God rest his soul," Thomas said, watching Fintan lead Beibhinn to settle on the bench a short distance away. "She is not right in the mind. For so long, she has let her thoughts be poisoned with anger and resentment."

"As ye know, Diarmuid," Murdoch's voice carried to them, the crowd moving aside so the older man and the ri could face each other again. "The punishment for murder is the honour price, and the enach required of a king is considerable."

"And if I haven't the fee to pay?"

"She'll be put to death."

Astrid's next breath stilled in her chest. She did not want her mother to die no matter what kind of horrible person she was.

Her throat tight with tears, she said, "Diarmuid! Do not let—"

"Certainly ye see she is not in her right mind," Thomas interrupted her. "Mercy, I beg ye."

"Leniency could be considered, but murdering in secret?" Murdoch paused, shifting his gaze between the three of them. "That is more reprehensible than murdering even in a rage."

Diarmuid thoughtfully stroked his chin. "I do not wish to see my own mother put to death."

The tension was thick, but Beibhinn appeared not to notice despite Fintan listening intently.

"If I am able, I will pay the fee." He sighed, his concern still apparent.

Astrid had no thought of how high the fee could be, but it seemed obvious it might actually be too steep.

Diarmuid turned to offer a hand to Ian. "I am saddened for yer loss, even more so that 'twas at the hands of my mother."

"My thanks. Though I am saddened to hear of yer mother's betrayal, 'tis better than the belief that one of our own is poisoning us." Ian's grief was plain to see, unlike his brother's. Pádraig, a haughty expression on his face, received no such sympathy.

"I have women who can care for her if ye wish to see her gone," Thomas said.

Diarmuid exhaled slowly, as if he'd come to the end of a great journey. "'Twould be best for all. She cannot stay here and continue to cause havoc."

"If she is allowed to live, I will see her well cared for," Thomas said. "And we will pray for the softening of her heart of stone."

Diarmuid looked to the man, a small smile on his lips. "And is this the Godly man ye spoke of so often, Marcán?"

"The very same." Marcán's face brightened considerably. "Thomas? This is Diarmuid."

"I believe my second is one of the greatest warriors I've had the honor of fighting beside," Diarmuid said. "To learn he also has a head for things of a spiritual nature—and Latin besides—is quite impressive. I would never think twice about allowing him to take my sister to wife. And I must say that now"—Diarmuid took Astrid's hand in his, kissing it lightly on the knuckles—"I would never think twice about my sister being the wife to my dearest friend."

Astrid glowed at the well-deserved compliment, kissing her brother's cheek. "Many thanks."

Like a net being cast onto the ocean, excited murmuring spread across the assembly.

"Wait!" Pádraig exclaimed.

"Pádraig. And what are ye about today?" Diarmuid glanced back toward Murdoch and the others at the table. "Ye hope to be given yer father's kingship? While ye behave as a man with no restraint?"

When Pádraig made a move toward Diarmuid, Marcán happily shoved him back, gritting his teeth to contain his rage.

"If there will be a battle here today, Pádraig, rest assured 'twill be between ye and me. I will happily dole out what ye so richly deserve."

Diarmuid hid his smirk, dipping his head, before addressing Pádraig. "Did yer father ever wish yer clan to be in union with ours? For if so, he never spoke of it to me."

"When he was young, he had such aspirations," Pádraig said, struggling with a rage so deep his face was red.

"'Tis the truth. I heard him speak of it when I was younger but not now," Ian said. "Before his death, he spoke more of the men he'd trained in his youth, of Colmán and Kane." The boy glanced between Diarmuid and Marcán. "He said the fili spoke the truth of their abilities. They were warriors without compare."

Pádraig glanced away and took a deep breath.

"Have ye nothing to add?" Marcán had no reason not to goad the man.

Ignoring him, Pádraig faced Diarmuid. "I believe my father would have been happy to have ye marry Daimhin. And as a second choice, for me to marry Astrid."

"And that will not come to pass in yer lifetime," Marcán declared.

"If the two túath are joined, 'twill be under Diarmuid." Astrid's voice surprised everyone. "For as Marcán has said, I am certainly not going to wed ye, and as Diarmuid is happily married, I do not see how that could ever come to pass."

Pádraig narrowed his eyes at her but looked away when he noticed Marcán's glare.

"Yer betrothed is well versed in our law, Marcán." Murdoch cleared his throat and addressed Pádraig. "We have questions about yer ability as king."

Pádraig's anger rose with each word. "I have all that is required to become ri. Ye have nothing against me that allows ye to withdraw me from consideration."

"How about the way ye behave? Far from a kingly presence." Astrid could not hold back the comment.

"Do ye have something to bring before the council?" Murdoch's question immediately sent Astrid into a panic. She could not share what had transpired and she hoped to never have to.

"I-I do!" Faolán's eyes leveled on her as he approached the table. "A-and I-I w-will bear w-witness on my testimony a-alone."

"Have ye news that would change our minds?"

Pádraig's face reddened.

"I-I do. This man i-is a-a defiler of w-women. I-I have seen so w-with my own e-eyes."

"He lies!" Pádraig's words ripped through the assembly. "He has a fondness for—"

"Do not say it." Marcán's voice was low and threatening, respectful of Astrid's obvious reluctance to recount her experience.

Pádraig was wise in clamming his mouth shut, but he shook his head, his gaze turning toward the trees in the distance.

"I also bear witness."

Pádraig's head circled quickly back to stare at the red-haired man at the table.

"He has approached me with promises for my sons. I am… I am ashamed to admit I considered his bribe. Forgiveness, please."

Ian placed a hand on his brother's back. "Mayhap we need time to meet together to decide what is right for our clan."

"I am what is right for my own clan!"

"Brother, they rise against ye even now."

A look over the crowds gathered around showed the disgruntled faces of Pádraig's own clan.

"They do not know what is best for them." His condescending tone was unmistakable.

"They do not believe 'tis ye," Marcán said.

"I will show them!" Pádraig grabbed at his sidearm, a long, solid sword, and withdrew it from its scabbard in one swift movement. "Step forth, Marcán. Ye believe ye are the better man? Let me show ye the error in yer thinking."

With a slicing motion, Pádraig caught Marcán's sleeve before he was able to withdraw his own blade.

"Not fair!" Astrid yelled, aggressively stepping toward the man as blood soaked Marcán's sleeve.

Ignoring the minor sting, Marcán set Astrid behind him with a smile. Then he was in Pádraig's face, their swords crossing as they pressed wrist to wrist.

Astrid continued to shout from the sidelines. "Is that the way of it, then? Ye must catch a man off guard and a woman unprotected to get whatever ye want?"

Pádraig bared his teeth in a snarling grimace. "Yer whore is speaking to ye."

With a hard thrust, Marcán shoved the man back so forcefully he stumbled to keep his footing.

"What, Marcán? Ye can't bear the truth?"

Disbelief flooded Marcán—the fool was so intent on taunting him, he wasn't paying attention to his sword. He pressed forward, ducking beneath Pádraig's flailing sword, and shoved the hilt of his own weapon into his enemy's belly. Pádraig doubled over in pain. Marcán did not hesitate to thrust the sword end against the bend of the man's shoulders, sending him plummeting the rest of the way to the ground.

Cheers went up, but Marcán remained focused on his vile opponent, his chest heaving. Pádraig fell to his side, rolling out of harm's way. Marcán kept on him. Blood trickled from the downed man's face, but he wiped at it, shifting to his knees.

"Ye think ye can best me with a few thrusts?" Pádraig jumped to his feet, shaking his head, no doubt to clear it. "I am made of firmer stuff."

"What ye are made of remains to be seen, but I've a mind to take a look." With a hacking motion, Marcán brought his sword down, aiming for Pádraig's unprotected side, but the man twisted out of harm's way and the tip of the blade just caught his léine, ripping it.

"Making mending for my wife, are ye?"

Anger flooded Marcán's brain, pushing out any reasonable thoughts, the noises of those around them, and his immediate surroundings. His eyes focused on Pádraig, keeping him in his sights. The man's mouth moved again, but Marcán did not hear him this time. As he pushed him back, one of the large rocks came into view, and Marcán steered the man backward toward it. High enough to sit upon, it would send the man tumbling.

Pádraig's eyes were red-rimmed and his mouth continued to flap. Just shy of the target, Pádraig's sudden halt and thrust forward caught Marcán off guard. The man charged him with the impetus of a mad bull, then locked swords with him. The clash of steel rang through the trees. They'd turned about, so the boulder was at Marcán's back when Pádraig came swinging for his head, a wide arc of the blade. Marcán dropped down, the point of his own sword piercing Pádraig's leg, causing him to stumble against the obstacle. Too late for Pádraig to stop the momentum that slammed his head against the rock. His body dropped dead beside it, his hand releasing the sword upon contact.