Chapter 4

Marcán could not remember ever having pain as bad as this. His head throbbed. He was barely able to sit before the vomit spewed out. Moans carried to his ears from all around him, but his eyes remained tightly shut.

"Father?" It was Ian's voice. "Pádraig? I fear I am dying."

Sympathy for the lad gave Marcán strength. Forcing down the bile flooding his mouth, he said, "No. Ye're not dying, but do not try to sit up. 'Twill only make it worse."

"Marcán? What is amiss?" Ian asked.

Moving carefully, Marcán sat up and opened his eyes. He scanned the cave—the others were in a similar state. Marcán forced a smile for Ian, but it felt more like a grimace.

"Mayhap we will not drink so much next time?"

"Oh, Marcán, I'd nothing but one horn of the mead. Something else ails me."

Marcán gritted his teeth and stood, waiting for the nausea to pass. "We need some water, Ian. Try to sit up now. Slowly."

The lad moaned with his first few attempts, both hands holding his head, but was finally able to get into a hunched-over standing position.

His movements slower than an old man's, Marcán made his way to the cave entrance, followed by Ian. The bright sunlight nearly knocked him on his arse again. He held up his hand to shield his eyes as he stumbled toward the nearby spring, fighting disorientation.

The cool water was refreshing, and they were soon joined by more of the men who'd come with them last night in search of Brian Boru's blood.

"I have never been this sick," one of the men said, his eyes intent on Marcán. "D'ye believe the Meic Murchadha is trying to kill us all?"

This man was from a clan farther south. Marcán's foggy brain refused to come up with his name.

"Why?" Ian asked the obvious question, his tone revealing his hurt. The two men had been friendly, even joking, on the way to the cave last night.

"Ah, ye do not know the ways of the warrior, lad."

Marcán wasn't surprised by the flash of resentment from Ian.

"Those are casks we had only just acquired from a merchant."

"Intentional or not, I agree we have been poisoned," Marcán said. He wiped his face on his sleeve, resting his forehead on his bent arm.

"D'ye think the hour is still early?" the visitor asked. "Our clan had plans to return this day."

Marcán's eyes flew open and he jumped up. Astrid had been left unprotected. He glanced around the group of groaning warriors. Pádraig was not among them.

"Ian, d'ye know if yer brother had a hunt planned for this day?"

It wasn't unusual to take visiting clans out to show them the bounty of yer land, especially if ye were hoping for a treaty with them.

Ian scratched his scalp and shrugged.

Marcán's annoyance reared its head. His worry about Astrid cut short any sympathy he felt for the lad. "I will head back. D'ye know the way?"

A few heads nodded, enough that Marcán was comfortable relinquishing his position as guide. Despite the pounding that flooded his head with every step, he hurried back to the Meic Murchadha camp.

Much to his dislike, Beibhinn was the first person he saw. But she didn't see him, which suited him fine. She was too busy smiling and talking to the men who were still hanging on her every word. The old woman basked in the attention of those who waited on her. That they'd clearly been ordered to do her bidding mattered not in the least to her. They had not yet been shredded to pieces by her fierce tongue.

At least the Meic Murchadha had the decency to feel guilty about the timing they'd chosen for their raid to steal the sheep. It was no coincidence they'd come after Diarmuid and most of his warriors had ridden off to join a gathering of the clans at the order of their overking, Sean. The Meic Murchadha might have felt slighted because Sean was also their overking and they had not been invited.

They certainly could not have guessed Astrid and her mother would try to retrieve the sheep alone. No one would have guessed the two would attempt such a ridiculous feat. Only Astrid would come up with such an idea.

Even in his current condition, Marcán's face eased into a smile at the thought of her. The ideas she came up with could leave a man exhausted trying to protect her. He blew a breath and decided to avoid Beibhinn altogether. It was Astrid he wanted to find. He was certain he could locate her without her mother's assistance. She paid her daughter so little attention, he doubted she even knew where she was.

"Oh, Marcán!" Beibhinn's voice grated on his nerves. "Glad I am that I have found ye."

He swallowed and planted a pleasant look on his face before turning around. "Beibhinn."

The woman had no use for him, and despite her sickly sweet tone, her face was tight with dislike. Marcán had heard the Legend of the Seer many times, mostly from her. It was said that anyone with two different-colored eyes could see into the future. Both the legends and the church agreed that Seers were to be avoided. But having two different-colored eyes, while certainly unusual, did not make a person a Seer. Those around him could keep watch all they liked, full of suspicion and talk.

Beibhinn believed every legend—she'd even gone so far as to tell Diarmuid to stay away from Marcán, claiming he worshipped the devil. Marcán had yet to discover where her hatred of him came from. Thankfully, Diarmuid had been old enough to discern Marcán's belief in the true faith and discount his mother's stories.

"Ye need not concern yerself with bringing us back," Beibhinn nearly purred the words, and Marcán was instantly on guard.

"Us?"

"Me and Astrid."

Marcán glanced around the busy village, searching out Astrid's light hair, but he spoke in an even tone. "Why would that be?"

"Well…" Beibhinn smiled like a cat just coming out of the milking shed. "I am going back with Eric and his brother."

Nodding politely, Marcán felt his breath slow as he prepared himself for whatever she was about to drop on him. Beibhinn said no more, but that smile remained, her eyes closing slightly in pleasure at whatever she was keeping from him.

The realization hit Marcán like a sharp slap to his face. Beibhinn knew of his feelings for Astrid! But how could she, when he'd never spoken of them to a soul, not even Diarmuid? The last thing she would ever condone was a match between the two of them. She would fight it tooth and nail, which was of no consequence, since Astrid seemed to be of the same mind. So why the pleased look?

Marcán refused to give in to her dramatic ploy. "Is that all ye needed to tell me, lady?"

"No!" Her face screwed up in confusion.

He allowed himself to savor her irritation with him for not playing along. Until she spoke again.

"I want to be certain ye know that Astrid has returned with Pádraig."

All sound around him seemed to stop, but he held back his questions, his demands for how that had come about, his dislike for the woman in general. Forcing a steady breath, he wetted his lips before speaking. "Are ye the one who gave her leave to do so?"

"Well"—she tilted her head and shrugged before continuing—"Astrid knows what she wants and she wanted to be home. Pádraig took care of her."

Pádraig took care of her.

"Lady, yer disregard for my authority is at an end." Marcán ground his teeth and scanned the area. "Philip!"

He motioned the warrior closer, glad to find one of his own men. "Philip, I give ye leave to see to Beibhinn in whatever manner is necessary to return her home now—"

"Hey!" Beibhinn said, dropping all pretense of pleasure.

Philip immediately took hold of her arm. He would obey his orders no matter what wiles Beibhinn tried to use on him.

"Ye cannot do this to me!" Her face reddened.

"—and ye will receive no punishment whatsoever for the means ye must use to see this done."

"How dare ye, Seer!" She shouted the word at him.

Seer!

Many halted what they were doing, turning to look at them, their eyes narrowing. The word got the expected response and Marcán's nostrils flared at the insult even as he struggled to maintain a calm facade.

"If gagging is required, Philip, so be it."

Marcán strode toward the ráth where the horses were kept, ignoring the commotion behind him. The commotion Beibhinn had started with that single word. Seers were considered akin to witches, practicing the dark arts, and they were not allowed to live within the villages. If there was even a hint that someone was a Seer, a council was called and a priest was asked to consider the charges.

Stopping at the rain barrel, Marcán dowsed his head up to his neck. This day was just getting better and better. At least the cold water helped numb the unrelenting throbbing. When he pulled his head out, he whipped his hair back.

"Marcán?"

Turning to face Ian, Marcán wasn't prepared for the look of disappointment and betrayal he saw there.

"Ian."

"Is there truth to what Beibhinn said? Are ye a Seer?"

The others had drifted toward Marcán, standing idly by as if not listening. But they did listen. Intently. Tension was obvious in their closed mouths and stiff bodies. They were the same people who had so enjoyed his storytelling the night before. Just like that! It baffled him how quickly one word had changed their smiles and applause into suspicion and distrust.

Exhaling slowly, Marcán offered a tight smile to Ian. "And if I were a Seer, lad? Would I truly have indulged so in the poisoned mead?"

Ian frowned, considering his words, before offering a relaxed smile. "True! Not a Seer then." He patted Marcán awkwardly on the shoulder and nodded.

The people around them seemed to relax as well, for they all went about their duties. He didn't miss the few sidelong glances that continued to come his way. Suspicions had been ignited. Damn Beibhinn and her manipulative ways.

"My thanks, Ian. I hope to see ye again before too long," Marcán said.

"I am not hopeful," the lad said darkly. "My father is very ill. I am going to him now."

"I will pray for his quick recovery this very night. Please give him my regards. I must return. I have… duties."

Ian smiled, a knowing smile. "Aye. Astrid. Daimhin tells me she snuck off with Pádraig in the middle of the night."

Without another word, Marcán raced into the ráth, grabbing the first available mount.

* * *

By the time Pádraig got Astrid home, the sun had still not broken the horizon. At least in that instance, he had been true to his word. The more she pondered the events of the night, the more certain she became that he had always planned on having his way with her. And she had made it far too easy for him.

Her back ached from the effort of sitting as far from him as possible while on the same mount, but at least Faolán had insisted on accompanying them. Pádraig dared not appear openly disrespectful of her in the other man's presence. He'd kept himself apart and allowed her to do the same. The yard was quiet—not even the animals were awake yet.

Faolán dismounted with them and moved to help her down. The look he received from Pádraig would have shriveled a lesser man. With both men ready to assist her, she clenched her jaw and leaned toward Pádraig. It was the only way to avert conflict. Once the man was gone, she'd never have to endure his touch again, and that could not be soon enough.

"I thank ye, Pádraig, for—"

"Faolán! Refreshments would be much appreciated." Pádraig sounded as if he were at an inn, ordering drinks for all.

Faolán tipped his chin and walked to the roundhouse.

Stopping in front of the large wooden door without opening it, Faolán turned to Pádraig, who had followed him.

"Y-ye'll have to w-wait there"—Faolán indicated a bench more than a stone's throw away—"a-as the others are not yet awake."

"I do not wait outside!" Pádraig's voice was louder than it needed to be. He was clearly insulted.

"Hard working men and w-women require their rest. I-I will not have ye startling them from their sleep. Y-yer arrival in the middle of the night does not give y-ye license to w-wake everyone."

"Ye'll not have… are ye certain ye wish to continue in this manner?" Pádraig jutted out his chin, an intimidating gesture to be sure.

Faolán simply crossed his arms, revealing nothing on his face. Astrid wanted to cheer him on. Pat him on the back. Give him a big smile.

Pádraig turned his exasperated face toward her, his eyes wide in disbelief. She offered no response, and after another moment, he simply shook his head and walked toward the bench.

"My thanks," she said to Faolán in a quiet voice.

Too late, she realized her mistake. She tried to push past him to go inside, but he was not having it.

"A-A-Astrid, d-do not let him get away w-with whatever he has done to ye. He is o-only one m-man."

His sincerity melted her heart, but she couldn't allow herself tears. She smiled. "'Tis fine. Ye're imagining things again."

She looked down at his hand on the latch, pressing her lips together to stop them quivering, waiting for him to open the door. She could not look at him. Not if she was to continue her lie.

"I-I a-am here for ye. Yer b-brother is here. Marcán i-is here."

Startled, she glanced at him. "Marcán is here?"

He swallowed. "No. I-I d-did not m-mean now. He has yet to r-return."

Ignoring the disappointment she felt, she went inside and was met with the smell of fresh bread. "Who is making bread so early?"

Faolán smiled and led the way to the food, both of them moving as quietly as they could manage with no more talking.

She'd hoped Pádraig would leave during the time it took to prepare the repast. Instead, he was up and pacing, irritation evident in every step.

"Glad I am to have ye rejoin me." Pádraig's clipped tone was directed at Faolán.

He moved close to Astrid, acting as if he had that right, but Faolán pushed between them to set down the wooden platter on the bench. Aside from his willingness to come to blows over Faolán taking the only other seat—beside her—Pádraig seemed oblivious to the deferential treatment the other warrior showed her. Faolán even went so far as to fill her cup before his own and cut off some bread for her with his dagger, offering her some cheese to accompany it.

Pádraig took a deep breath, ignoring both the bread and the drink. "Astrid! I wish to speak to Diarmuid at once."

She blanched, her mouth going dry, making it difficult to swallow the bread. "Why?"

"As we've discussed." He turned wide eyes on her. "The joining of our two clans."

Faolán turned to her as well. She swore she saw betrayal on his face, but she refused to be distracted. This needed to be stopped. She would never marry a man who would force himself on her or treat her so disrespectfully.

"I do not believe—"

"I will speak with Diarmuid, Astrid. I will not be set aside."

The conviction of his words caught her unaware. He actually thought they should be married? Never!

"Pádraig, 'tis not time for visits. Return later, when she's rested." Faolán's commanding tone brooked no discussion, and he stood, arms about his chest, ready to do whatever was necessary to ensure his words were followed.

Astrid lifted the cup to her mouth to hide any sign of the absolute bliss she felt at Faolán's dismissal of the man. She lowered her gaze in case Pádraig looked to her for assistance. When she could no longer take the suspense—or the silence—she glanced at Pádraig. His eyes were narrowed, and he stared at Faolán as if considering how best to take him down. Pádraig finally clenched his jaw, dropped his arms, and nodded.

"Ye have the right of it, Faolán. I need to return to my father." His eyes darted to her before he continued. "There are many things we need to see to, but rest assured, I will be back."

When the man bent down to kiss her on the cheek, she gasped so hard her head jerked away. He was not deterred—he merely leaned in closer. He might as well announce her as his betrothed. She was trapped! The smug smile he offered her screamed that he'd done it intentionally. Astrid nearly stumbled in her haste to stand and move away from him.

Faolán was alongside her in a moment, ready to ward off any more demonstrations, but Pádraig had made his statement. He mounted his horse and rode off without a backward glance. Filled with a mix of relief and alarm, Astrid turned to Faolán, unsure of what to say, and found him watching her. He said nothing.

Then he picked up the heavy tray of items to be brought within and walked to the door of the roundhouse. Relief washed over her until he stopped. He paused. He was considering what to say to her. She swallowed and struggled to calm her expression, ready for him to turn toward her. When he finally did, his words shocked her.

"Y-ye need to come i-in with me so that I-I know y-ye are unmolested."

He definitely knew!

And he didn't understand why she was not saying anything.

Astrid wished she could scream out how thankful she was that he had come along when he had. If he hadn't…

She couldn't allow that thought to continue. Scanning his face, she realized he might feel hurt that she wasn't confiding in him. They were the same age and had played together as children. Diarmuid disliked the man, but Faolán had always looked out for her. How could she confirm his suspicions? He would then have to tell Diarmuid. Such an act would require retribution against Pádraig. Against his entire clan.

Faolán was as diligent as any man in their clan. If she said nothing, there would be no recourse but also no bloodshed because of her ignorance. She would have to find another way to avoid a match with Pádraig.

"My thanks, Faolán. I am very tired."

Astrid went within, moving toward the others who slept peacefully. Dreaming. Unbothered by guilt or shame. She doubted she would get much rest, but it didn't matter. Now she was safely home and this entire terrible night could be put behind her.